by Alan Tansley
Chapter 9
At the farm, a week before Christmas 1914, Joseph was adding logs to the fire while Mahala finished the washing up. Both had perked up immensely after receiving letters from George and Henry. Mahala had considered them lucky to have received one from Timothy, although she remained worried about him now that she knew he had gone abroad. About to settle in front of the fire, Joseph passed Mahala a drink of tea. Sitting with her, he studied her face before he said ‘Tomorrow morning, I think we’ll have a walk into the village.’
There was a loud banging on the door, and both suddenly spun around and stared at it. ‘Who the hell is that at this time of night?’ moaned Mahala, and stood up, trying not to spill her cup.
‘Hang on,’ replied Joseph, nodded at her to stay put, and opened the door. ‘What the bloody hell?’ he gasped, and grabbed Florence when she fell into his arms.
‘Please help me!’ she begged, clinging to him.
Joseph heard shouting in the distance, and stared out into the darkness. Not understanding the words, or seeing who was yelling them, he kicked the door shut, and held Florence at arm’s length. Noticing two small cuts and what looked like the start of a black eye, he turned to Mahala, saying, ‘Here….come and help the poor bugger.’
Mahala dashed over, put her arm around Florence and escorted her to a chair. Then she noticed Joseph reaching out to pick up his shotgun, and stared. Joseph checked the contents of both barrels, then continued towards the door, opened it, pointed the gun and went outside.
Mahala turned to Florence and asked, ‘What the hell has happened to you?’
With pleading eyes, Florence gasped, ‘Please, go and tell him not to hurt him. I’m very sorry; I have a lot of explaining to do. My dad has done this, and would have done a lot more if I hadn’t run here.’
Slowly, as if ashamed, she bowed her head, and wiped her face on her sleeve. Mahala studied the girl, and turned and marched into the kitchen. She returned with a damp cloth and passed it to Florence, who raised her head and wiped her face. Mahala immediately noticed the size of her belly; she sprang up and set off towards the door, shouting, ‘Joseph! Joseph! Come back inside, quickly!’ She smiled when he walked towards her.
Bewildered, Joseph asked, ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ and closed the door behind him. Taking the cartridges out of both barrels, he slipped them into his waistcoat pocket and rested the shotgun in the corner near the hearth. Not wanting to go over to Florence, he waited, pretending to tidy the table as Mahala went into the kitchen, but before he could go to her, she suddenly returned and seemed to saunter into their bedroom. Joseph was about to sit down, when Mahala returned and went back into the kitchen. Even more perplexed, he wondered what the hell was going on, when Mahala walked out carrying a tray.
She placed it on the table, nodded for him to sit down, and said ‘I think I know Florence’s problem, but I think she had better tell us everything first, and from there we can work out a future for everyone.’
Florence’s head was bowed with shame at Mahala’s words. ‘I think I better had,’ she whispered.
Joseph realised that Mahala was sitting down as if she was about to scold the lads; she had that ‘You are all in serious trouble’ look upon her face. Standing up, he said, ‘I’ll just pour out the tea.’
With her head still bowed, quietly, Florence replied, ‘My mum questioned me this afternoon about my periods, and I had to tell her that I’m past five months’ pregnant.’
Mahala had already assessed the situation, but wanting confirmation, she asked, ‘And is it George’s?’
‘Oh yes,’ Florence replied.
‘Oh bloody hell,’ moaned Joseph, and stared into space while stirring his tea.
‘When my dad came home from work, mum told him, but he went berserk and beat me. Mum tried to stop him but he flew into a rage and beat us both. Luckily, a neighbour came to visit just before it got too bad. When he pulled him off me, I ran away,’ said Florence, and suddenly burst into tears.
‘You can stay here tonight, and I will go and see your dad in the morning after milking,’ said Joseph, and took a drink of tea.
‘No, please. It’s best if he comes here,’ she replied, and wiped her eyes.
‘And why?’ he asked, frowning.
Looking at him through watery eyes, Florence replied, ‘Please, everything is not as it seems, Mr Cotton. It is up to my father to inform you.’
Also feeling perplexed, Mahala pondered before she stood up and said, ‘Come with me. You can sleep in George’s bed. You will feel a lot better in the morning.’
Mahala showed Florence up to the lads’ bedroom. Joseph knelt in front of the fire and threw two logs on it. After sticking a spill in the embers, he sat back and thought about his lads. He took out the spill and sat back again. About to have a smoke when Mahala returned, he turned to her instead, grumbling, ‘I told you there would be trouble with those two.’
‘Since when does having a baby cause trouble?’ she asked, and defiantly stared at him.
‘Since they aren’t married, that’s why. And it’s also another mouth to feed,’ he snapped glaring back.
‘Don’t be so silly, and really, that’s a stupid thing to say. Anyway, are you calling to see Mr Webster tomorrow?’ she asked, patting him on the shoulder before she sat with him.
‘No, and I don’t see why I should. They make me laugh, when they are supposed to be all religious and forgiving. It still doesn’t stop them beating their womenfolk whenever they feel like it,’ he replied, resting his head back on the chair.
Mahala sighed, and resting her head on his shoulder had to agree. ‘I’ve always thought the same, my love.’
Because the weather turned bitterly cold, with huge drifts of snow and the temperature well below freezing at nights, Florence stayed at the farm throughout the festive season. None of her family called to see her, but, Joseph understood that venturing out in this weather was dangerous. Occasionally he smiled, knowing that tongues would have started to wag, and missing their Sunday walk to church for three consecutive weeks would have fuelled the local gossips further.
Their animals always came first, and Joseph tended to them daily, as nearly every night there was a keen frost. His only problem was threshing the corn, although he paid young lads at the village to gather it in; he knew the corn merchant would be calling soon. Although the present weather conditions were awful, Joseph had to smile, knowing full well that he would walk to the end of the earth for a good deal. Florence was a willing and quick worker. She obviously felt duty-bound to pay for her board and lodgings, and eagerly helped with the household chores. She settled into a routine, and Mahala noticed, respected her for it, and began to adjust clothes to fit her, as she noticed that she had put on more weight since arriving at the farm.
Near the end of February, on a bitterly cold night, while eating dinner, Mahala was feeling depressed and disappointed, having heard nothing new from her sons. Joseph knew this, wiped his mouth, and asked Florence, ‘I know it’s still cold, but if the lanes are clear of snow, shall I visit your parents tomorrow?’
‘It is up to you, Mr Cotton, really. I cannot stop you,’ she replied, but frowned at the idea.
Mahala rest back in her chair, and sighed. ‘We are both in a dilemma—you have not seen your parents, and I cannot see my sons.’
‘They will be alright,’ said Joseph, and poured out some tea, but looked up when Florence sprang up, and rushed into the lads’ bedroom.
‘You have upset her now,’ snapped Mahala, and carried on eating.
‘How the hell have I done it?’ grumbled Joseph, shaking his head with disgust.
‘Because for,’ she argued, stood up, pushed her chair back, and set off to Florence.
‘I get the bloody blame for everything around here,’ Joseph moaned, and impatiently pushed his plate away.
The corn merchant was late visiting because of the harsh weather. Joseph waited impatiently, knowing that he would brin
g some daily papers with him, even though they would be out of date. He desperately wanted to be updated about the war, and began to worry more when hadn’t heard anything from the lads.
Doctors were not only far and few between, but also had to be paid—and were usually expensive. Joseph and Mahala discussed their finances, and when they found out that a physician would be calling at a neighbour’s house soon, Mahala walked to their farm. After discussing Florence with him, the doctor decided to call, just to make sure both mother and baby were alright for the birth. Soon after this, and because the weather had deteriorated again, there was a quick visit from the corn merchant. Unfortunately, he had no news about the war—only that it was still ongoing—so after he arranged a price and a collection date, he departed quickly because of the weather. Two weeks later, soon after the corn was threshed, and again with help from the younger villagers, it was loaded straight onto the wagons. Two days later, twenty piglets, three calves, and two in-calf cows quickly followed to be sold at market, mainly to reduce feeding and husbandry costs. The only task for Joseph was preparing the land for sowing when the weather allowed, which would hopefully before the birth of his first grandchild. He was very much looking forward to it.
The doctor visited again the following week, examined Florence, and informed them that everything was alright. This was met with relieved faces, especially when he dated the birth around the end of April. So far, it had cost eight shillings for him to call. Outside the door, in a bitter evening breeze, while Joseph discreetly paid him, he also made enquiries about the war, thinking that the Doctor would be more knowledgeable. Unfortunately, Joseph was disappointed when informed that it was escalating.
Opening his carriage door, the Doctor groaned, ‘I’m off—it’s bloody freezing tonight, and anyway, you should know by now this war won’t end until they destroy the whole bloody world.’ Tapping the carriage roof with his cane, he shouted, ‘On your way, driver! Anyway, I must be off now, and a good day to you all, Joseph.’
Joseph waved as he watched his driver approach the road, and thought his horse looked undernourished. He went indoors and closed the door behind him. As he continued towards the fireplace, he could hear Florence and Mahala chatting in the kitchen.
In a sombre mood, Joseph bent down, placed a few logs on the fire, and stared at the flames as he pulled a splinter off one log and stuck it in the ashes. When it flamed, he took it out, but as he was about to light his pipe, Mahala entered, and said, ‘I think it’s time we informed Florence’s parents now.’
‘I’ve thought the same. I will go there, and on my own, in case there is any trouble,’ he replied, lit his pipe, and sat down.
‘Be careful, Joseph, and try not to aggravate the situation.’ she said, and sitting down with him, gently placed her hand on his arm.
‘Trying to beat me will be different to beating a woman, so I won’t retaliate if he doesn’t attack,’ said Joseph, and then inhaled on his pipe.
Later that night, Joseph set off walking into town, well wrapped up. He felt apprehensive as Florence’s dad was a strong man, and also might have been drinking; he nervously approached their house, which looked picturesque enough in the evening moonlight. He took a deep breath before he knocked on the door.
Florence’s mother opened it, and, gasped, ‘Oh my God, is everything alright?’
‘Oh yes, things are rosy, except Florence is missing her parents,’ replied Joseph, and smiled faintly.
Suddenly there was a bang, as if a chair had been knocked over. Florence’s father staggered towards the door and, obviously drunk, shouted, ‘Go on and fuck off, you lot!’ He then grabbed the door, and tried to close it.
‘That’s bad manners, is that,’ said Joseph, and using his shoulder, determinedly pushed the door open. This sent Mr Webster reeling backwards, ending up on his back on the floor. When Mrs Webster cried out and went over to him, Joseph entered the house. Closing the door behind him, after picking up a chair, he helped Mr Webster stand up, and sat him in it before glancing around the house, noticing how simple it was. Turning to Florence’s mum, and seeing fright in her eyes, he said, ‘Honestly, I haven’t come here for trouble, Mrs Webster, and definitely not to right my son’s wrongs. Florence is your daughter. She misses you and needs to speak with you.’
‘What’s the problem, is she costing you too much to keep?’ growled Mr Webster, and grinned.
‘Florence and her child can stay at my house for as long as they wish. Life is more precious than money, Mr Webster,’ replied Joseph, then stared him down, noting his helplessness.
‘It is if you have any,’ he scowled.
‘You must have plenty then, if you can get drunk with yours,’ replied Joseph, then turned when Florence’s mother began to cry. He winced with regret when she bowed her head in shame.
‘Shut up wittering, woman,’ snapped Mr Webster.
‘Can you make us some tea, please?’ asked Joseph, wanting her out of the way. Mrs Webster turned without replying and continued into the kitchen. Joseph turned to Mr Webster and, changing the expression on his face, snapped, ‘What the hell’s up with you? You weren’t put on this earth to order people around. Are you just a drunken idiot or what?’
Mr Webster turned and glared at him, his hands beginning to tremble. At first, Joseph thought it was in temper, and clenched his own fists ready, when suddenly Mr Webster slowly bowed his head into his hands, and whispered, ‘Oh my good God.’
‘And what has the good Lord to do with our situation? Our children have created the baby, not him,’ said Joseph, and had to smile, and then cringe, when Mr Webster began to sob out loud.
With head bowed, Florence’s mum entered the room carrying two cups. She passed Joseph a cup and tried to gauge his expression. When Joseph had taken it, she placed the other on the table, then sat down to face him and said, ‘You might be a while. Our explanation is lengthy but very necessary.’
‘As you wish,’ he replied. Not understanding, Joseph sat down, and held the cup in both hands to warm them. He stared at Florence’s dad, who now looked positively unwell.
Mr Webster had a slurp of tea and, looking up, said, ‘Please forgive my ignorance.’
‘As you wish,’ said Joseph. He took a drink, and thought their tea tasted good.
Mr Webster’s pained eyes were glistening with tears and surrounded by their usual coat of dark coal dust. ‘What would you think of me if I said I was Catholic?’ asked Mr Webster, and waited for a reaction.
Joseph noticed, and replied, ‘No less or more if you said you were a Hindu, Protestant or Mohammedan.’ He casually sipped his tea.
‘There is also another problem. We are not married,’ said Mr Webster, and turned as Florence’s mother dashed out of the room.
Joseph also watched her go. ‘Oh dear,’ he thought, and turned to Florence’s father, saying, ‘You know all this is none of my business, and I don’t really want to know.’
‘I have always classed you as a good man, Joseph,’ Mr Webster replied, ‘and one of integrity. Please hear me out before classing me as a man with no hope.’
Mrs Webster returned with a handkerchief held up to her face. She sat down slowly at the table, then leaned forward and bowed her head on her arms.
Turning to look at Mr Webster, Joseph said, ‘You know very well that whatever you say to me will be in confidence. In fact, I don’t really want to know anything at all. All I am bothered about is our offspring.’
‘That might be the case. However, please listen to me first. I was brought up in a staunch Catholic family. I fell in love with Edith, who is from a Protestant family, and we both knew that if we were caught together, the sparks would really fly,’ said Mr Webster, looking around and smiling at his wife.
‘Oh dear, and I can understand that fully,’ said Joseph, recalling similar family feuds and arguments in the area.
‘What we did to save any arguments was to run away. We ended up here, and the locals thought we were married. I got a jo
b at the mine, and when Edith said she was pregnant, I was over the moon,’ said Mr Webster, and smiled when heard his wife sob, ‘Sorry, my love, I must say all, because it’s eating my bloody heart out.’
‘Please listen,’ interjected Joseph. ‘This has nothing to do with me. I know about all the disapproval of mixed marriages, and personally, I don’t approve of it because marriage is up to the individuals concerned.’ He smiled, noting the love between them.
Mrs Webster began to sob out loud, walked into a room, closing the door behind her. Joseph thought it must be their bedroom. He turned to Mr Webster, and said, ‘Right! I’m not going to be a judge in any way. This Sunday at noon, will you come to our house and have dinner with us? As future in-laws, we must get to know each other better, and the excuse you have given me for staying away so far hasn’t been good enough.’
Mrs Webster came back into the room, and Mr Webster took a deep breath when he saw her, and said, ‘It’s really up to her.’
‘Please, Mrs Webster, your daughter needs you. Mahala gives Florence all the attention she can, but she does need her family,’ stressed Joseph.
‘We aren’t married though,’ Mrs Webster moaned, ashamed.
‘And neither are those two buggers, are they? But it isn’t the end of the world, is it? So just come up to the farm at noon. We’ll all have dinner together then spend the rest of the day getting to know each other. Might I also suggest, Mr Webster, and without any more arguments or violence, that you please refrain from drinking until then,’ said Joseph, trying to pressure him, but realising that alcohol had caused his present bewildered condition.
