The curate froze for a moment, then slowly lowered his stick.
‘It’s a dangerous animal,’ he muttered.
‘It’s just afeared, that’s all. And waving a bloody stick at it won’t make it any better.’
Matthew gasped. ‘Watch your language! There is a lady present!’
The young man ignored him. He dropped his spade on the ground and turned away to crouch down in front of the dog.
‘It’s all right, lad,’ he crooned softly. ‘In’t no one going to hurt you. Least not while I’m here.’
The dog seemed to sense what was being said. The tension went out of its emaciated body, although its brown, watchful gaze didn’t leave his rescuer’s face.
Polly watched as the young man ran his hands gently over the dog’s flanks, checking it over. Even from a distance, she could make out the jutting bones of its ribs through the sleek black coat.
‘He looks half starved, poor thing,’ she said.
‘Aye, he is. Nowt more than a bag o’ bones. And there’s a nasty wound on his neck too. Reckon that’s what’s putting him in a temper. In’t that right, lad?’
‘Let me see.’ Polly went to approach, but Matthew grabbed her arm, holding her back.
‘Have a care,’ he said. ‘You saw how it went for me.’
‘I’m not afraid.’ Polly removed her wrist from his grasp and walked over to where the young man still crouched in front of the dog. She took care to approach slowly, tiptoeing over the wet grass.
Even from a distance, she could see the raw wound all the way around the dog’s throat. It was crusted with dried blood, but still oozing.
‘It doesn’t look too deep, but I think it’s infected,’ she said.
‘Aye, that’s what I thought.’
‘Did he catch it on something, do you think?’
‘More likely he’s been tied up, and the rope’s rubbed it raw.’ The young man’s face was grim. ‘If I could catch the swine who did this to him, I’d string them up too,’ he muttered.
‘It will need to be cleaned up …’ Without thinking, Polly reached forward. The dog whipped round and snapped at her. She snatched her hand back but the dog lunged forward and would have sunk its teeth into her if the young man hadn’t managed to grab the scruff of its neck and pull it back. For all it was thin, it was still a powerful beast, but he held on to it fearlessly.
‘It’s all right, lad,’ he murmured. ‘She didn’t mean you no harm. She were only trying to help you, just like me.’ Somehow, miraculously, the dog calmed again, lulled by the low, soothing sound of his voice.
The young man looked up at Polly. ‘Did it get you?’ he asked.
‘Not too badly.’ Polly examined her hand where the dog’s teeth had grazed her skin. If it hadn’t been for the young man’s quick actions, her injury might have been much worse. ‘It was my own fault anyway.’
‘I told you that thing was dangerous.’ She had been so preoccupied, she hadn’t realised Matthew Elliott was still there, standing behind them. Now the curate stepped in, trying to regain control of the situation. ‘I want you to take it away and destroy it,’ he ordered.
‘No!’ Polly cried.
The young man raised his gaze, slow and insulting, to stare at the curate. ‘If you want it killed, you’ll have to do it.’
They glared at each other for a moment, and Polly could feel the tension building between them. The gravedigger’s eyes were as grey and threatening as the storm clouds overhead.
Matthew looked away first. ‘Then get it out of here,’ he muttered. ‘Just get rid of it, before the vicar sees it.’
He turned to Polly, his smile back in place. ‘I’ll see you safely to the gate,’ he offered.
She hesitated for a moment. She would have liked to stay, to see if she could help treat the animal’s wound. But the other young man’s expression was so forbidding, she didn’t feel as if her assistance would be welcome.
She looked back over her shoulder at him as she and Matthew made their way down the path. The young man was still crouched down beside the dog, his arm around its neck, whispering to it. She knew the creature would come to no harm under his protection, whatever anyone else wanted.
‘I must apologise for his appalling rudeness,’ Matthew spoke up, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Be assured I will be having a word with Reverend Turner about that man.’
‘Who is he?’ Polly asked.
‘The sexton’s grandson, I believe. He’s had some trouble at home, so the vicar has given permission for him to stay here with his grandfather for a while.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘I don’t know. But looking at him, I wouldn’t put anything past him.’ Matthew shook his head. ‘If it were up to me, I would have sent him packing a long time ago. But I’m afraid Reverend Turner is too soft-hearted for his own good.’ He looked back at the young man, still cradling the dog. ‘Look at them,’ he sneered. ‘Two strays together.’
They reached the gate and Polly tried to give Matthew his umbrella back, but he insisted she should take it.
‘You can return it to the vicarage next time you come,’ he said, then added with a smile, ‘which means I’ll have an excuse to see you again.’
‘Thank you.’ Polly glanced away past his shoulder, back to where the young man and the dog had been. They had both vanished into the rain.
Chapter Eight
It was a warm September day, and Miss Jennings’ Upper Fifth history class was stiflingly hot and stuffy. Christine Fairbrass sat at her wooden desk, drowsy with the heat, watching the columns of swirling dust illuminated by the sun coming in through the tall windows and trying to listen to Miss Jennings’ lecture on the Wars of the Roses. Christine loved history, but for once she could barely take in Miss Jennings’ light, sing-song voice. It was all she could do to keep her eyes open.
It didn’t help that behind her, Joan Cathcart and her cronies were growing restless in the heat.
‘Ooh, it’s so hot in here,’ Betty Evans, one of the girls who vied to be Joan’s best friend, was saying dramatically. ‘I think I’m going to faint.’
‘We need some air,’ Sheila Dunbar, another of Joan’s friends, joined in. ‘There’s a horrible smell in here, too. Can you smell it? Like overcooked cabbage.’
‘It’s probably Fairbrass,’ Joan said, loud enough for everyone in the class to hear.
A titter rippled around the room. Christine sat perfectly still, her gaze still fixed on Miss Jennings’ hand as it moved across the blackboard. She could feel the back of her neck burning with humiliation.
She lowered her head and sniffed surreptitiously under the arms of her blue cotton dress. It smelled of Sunlight soap and starch, the results of her mother’s hard work. Lil Fairbrass took great pride in her daughter’s appearance. Every Monday she would pummel Christine’s school blouses in the dolly tub, hang them on the line in the shared back yard, starch the collars and cuffs, then lovingly iron them all.
‘We might not have much money, but I won’t have anyone looking down their nose at you, saying you’re not as good as the rest of the girls,’ she would say.
If only she knew, Christine thought.
‘Is something amusing, girls?’ Miss Jennings turned away from the blackboard, her keen gaze skimming across the room. She was a student teacher, barely five years older than the girls of the Upper Fifth. Christine adored her. She had already made up her mind that after her school certificate she would become a teacher just like Miss Jennings, and strut down the corridor with her arms full of books, admired and respected by everyone she met.
The room went quiet. Joan spoke up, her clear, well-spoken voice breaking the silence. ‘Please, miss, may we open a window?’ she said. ‘Only there’s an odd smell in here.’
Another snigger came from the back of the class. Christine felt perspiration running down between her shoulder blades that had nothing to do with the warmth of the September day.
Miss Jennings paused
for a moment, as if summing up the situation. Her gaze settled briefly on Christine, as if she knew exactly what was going on. Christine felt the blood burn in her face. The last thing she wanted was the teacher’s pity.
‘Very well,’ Miss Jennings said, turning back to the blackboard. ‘Open the window, but hurry up about it.’
Joan strode to the front of the classroom, her blonde plait bobbing against her straight spine, and picked up the long wooden pole used to open the high window. In spite of what Miss Jennings had said, she took her time, fitting the metal hook into the fixing on the casement to push it open.
Finally, she finished her task. As she returned to her desk, she deliberately brushed against Christine’s arm with her hip, jogging her arm and making ink splatter across a page of notes.
‘Oops! Sorry, Carrot Top!’ she sneered.
Behind her, Sheila and Betty hooted with laughter. Miss Jennings swung round.
‘What’s the matter now?’ she said.
‘Please, miss, I think Christine Fairbrass has blotted her copybook,’ Joan spoke up again.
Miss Jennings looked at Christine. ‘How did that happen?’
She stared down at the pitted surface of her wooden desk. ‘It was an accident, miss,’ she mumbled.
Miss Jennings let out a long sigh. ‘Well, clean it up, please. And try not to be so clumsy in future. Now, as I was saying, not everyone approved of Edward’s marriage to Elizabeth Woodville …’
She turned away, the chalk squeaking as her hand flew across the blackboard. Christine picked up her blotting paper and tried to soak away the pool of ink that covered her carefully written script. She was determined not to give the other girls the satisfaction of showing how upset she was. But inside she burned with hatred for Joan Cathcart.
Joan was easily the worst of her tormentors. She thought she was better than everyone because her father was on the town council and owned a grocery shop. His delivery bikes, black with ‘Cathcart’s Fine Foods’ written on them in curly gold script, could regularly be seen around the town, although never in Quarry Hill. No one ever had groceries delivered there.
Joan kept her special select group of friends around her. They walked with arms linked and noses in the air. They all lived in nice houses in Weetwood and Roundhay, and their fathers worked in banks and offices, and their mothers stayed at home and did charity work. Joan’s father even owned a Ford Tudor Sedan, which she boasted about endlessly.
They had been friendly towards Christine at first. But when she had revealed that she was from Quarry Hill and had won a scholarship, they had quickly decided she wasn’t one of them, and had shut her out ever since.
Worse than that, they seemed to resent her presence.
‘It’s not fair that she comes here free when our parents have to pay three guineas a term,’ she had heard Joan saying loudly to Betty and the others just after they had started school.
Five years later, Christine’s heart had hardened towards them. She had stopped trying to fit in and win them over. She didn’t want to be like them anyway, she told herself.
‘Now, who can tell me the name of the first battle of the Wars of the Roses?’ Miss Jennings addressed the class.
St Albans. The name came into Christine’s head straight away but she pressed her lips together to keep silent. She was fascinated by history and knew all about the various wars and battles, even remembered all the dates. But she didn’t dare put up her hand and draw attention to herself.
‘Come along, someone must be able to remember?’ Miss Jennings’ lively gaze roamed around the class. Christine looked down at her hands, her nails bitten down to the quick, and prayed the teacher wouldn’t single her out.
‘Christine Fairbrass.’ Her heart sank at the sound of her own name. ‘You must know the answer, surely?’
‘St Albans, miss?’ Christine whispered reluctantly, keeping her eyes lowered.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Miss Jennings’ voice was warm with approval. ‘I might have known you’d get it right. You are my best student.’
‘Thank you, miss.’
‘St Albans, miss. Thank you, miss,’ Joan mimicked, as Miss Jennings turned back to the board. ‘Teacher’s pet!’
Christine shrank down in her seat in shame. She knew her mother would tell her not to stand for it. ‘You’re every bit as good as the rest of them,’ Lil would say defiantly. ‘You’ve got a scholarship. That means you had to work for your place, unlike them. You’re a Fairbrass, girl. Don’t you forget it.’
The Fairbrass family fought back. Christine’s mother was forever rolling up her sleeves to sort out neighbours who lit fires when she’d put out her washing or occupied the shared privy for longer than they should. But Lil would never understand what it was like at school for Christine. The trouble she endured there was different. It wasn’t the kind that could be sorted with a slanging match or setting about someone with a rolling pin. This was sly and subtle, like a thin blade straight to the heart, showing barely a wound but cutting deep all the same.
Christine was desperately lonely and miserable, but she knew she could never tell anyone, especially not her mother. It would break Lil’s heart if she thought her daughter was unhappy. Sometimes Christine wished she’d never won that stupid scholarship, but she knew it had been the best moment of her mother’s life. Lil Fairbrass had saved and taken in extra washing and mending to pay for the books and pens and stationery that her daughter needed. Christine’s five elder brothers had contributed too, all so their little sister could have the chance that they’d never had.
Lil had gone all the way up to Matthias Robinson’s on Briggate to buy the dark blue blazer and blouses and gymslips and the school hat with its coloured band, and she had paraded the bags in front of the neighbours when she came home, so everyone in Quarry Hill could see that the Fairbrass family was going up in the world.
Christine couldn’t allow the likes of Joan Cathcart to spoil her mother’s triumph.
Finally, the lesson was over, and they all surged out on to the school field for break time. The field was separated from the neighbouring boys’ school by an invisible line down the middle. Prefects from both schools patrolled the centre, making sure each side kept themselves to themselves. Not that there was any need. The boys ran about like hooligans, shouting and letting off steam, while the girls played sedate skipping games or walked on the grass, arms linked.
Christine found a bench on the edge of the field and sat down quietly to read her book. She chose the bench deliberately because it was close to the border with the boys’ school, but not close enough to arouse suspicion.
She felt self-conscious as she took the book out of her bag, knowing he would be watching her. He would have been looking out for her to come, just as he always did. Christine took her time, opening the book and finding her place before she finally allowed her gaze to drift over the boys’ half of the field to find him.
And there he was. He was a long way off, on the other side, so far away she couldn’t make out his features. But she knew he would have seen her.
The thought made her smile to herself as she opened her book. Knowing he was there made up for a lot of the misery in her day.
‘What are you smiling about, Carrot Top?’ Joan’s shrill voice dragged Christine out of her pleasant daydream. Her tormentor stood very close, flanked by Betty and Sheila, their arms firmly linked to make a barrier.
Normally Christine would have ignored them. But knowing he was watching made her bold.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know, Dung Cart?’ she replied.
Joan’s eyes widened as if she’d been slapped. Beside her, Betty fought to keep the smirk off her face. Christine had the feeling that even Joan’s inner circle enjoyed seeing their leader’s fine feathers ruffled sometimes.
‘Come on,’ Joan huffed, turning on her heel. ‘We don’t want to hang around here. Heaven knows what bugs we might catch!’
Christine smiled to herself as she watched her go
. Joan Cathcart might have money and a posh car, but Christine had something much more special.
She had a secret love.
He followed her as she walked home from school that afternoon. They both knew better than to meet near the gates – if either of them was seen talking to the other, even out of school, they would be punished severely. But instead of going straight home to Quarry Hill, Christine walked north along Wade Lane, past the almshouses with their steeply gabled roofs, to the recreation ground where she knew he would catch up with her.
She had almost reached the bandstand before she heard his footsteps behind her, coming closer. She smiled to herself but didn’t turn round.
Finally, when she couldn’t wait any longer, she turned slowly to look at him, savouring the moment when their eyes met, not wanting to rush the pleasure. He was tall and dramatically attractive, with high, sharp cheekbones, olive skin, jet-black hair and eyes as dark as sloes. Even his name was exotic – Oliver Umansky.
He fell into step beside her as they walked for a while, neither of them speaking. Christine was always too tongue-tied to speak first. It was enough for her to have him there, at her side. Her heart skipped in her chest when he reached down and took her hand.
‘I was watching you earlier,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘I saw those other girls talking to you. What were they saying?’
‘Nothing.’ Christine looked down at the cracked paving slabs beneath her feet. Her school shoes were showing signs of wear after three years, but she polished them every night to make them last.
She felt him send her a sideways look. ‘They were being horrible to you again, weren’t they? What did they say?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Christine shrugged. And suddenly it didn’t. Not when he was there by her side, holding her hand. She didn’t want the happiest time of her day to be ruined by thoughts of Joan Cathcart. ‘Anyway, I’m used to it.’
‘They’re only jealous, you know.’
‘Jealous?’ Christine was incredulous. ‘Why would they be jealous of me?’
‘Because you’re pretty and clever, and all the things they’ll never be.’
The Nurses of Steeple Street Page 7
