‘She’s near frantic that Toby isn’t coming home,’ he whispered to Grace in the privacy of the scullery as she prepared tea.
‘I know. The poor soul’s been sat twisting her handkerchief all afternoon, almost tore it to shreds.’
‘I should have known she was only putting on a brave face when we last went to visit. I feel dreadful at neglecting her. We shall have to do something to cheer her up.’ Probyn thrust his greying head back into the living room. ‘You’ll be staying a while, Aunt?’
This evinced a manufactured smile. ‘No, no, I just called on my way to Merry’s.’
‘Nay, you’ll stay the night at least.’
‘Well, I wasn’t planning to…’
‘You’ll never get to Huddersfield before the blackout!’ Her nephew’s face told Kit that the very suggestion was preposterous. ‘The whole place will be in darkness by the time you arrive and you’ll get lost. The old lass next door broke her ankle trying to find her way in the dark last wee—’
‘Are you calling me an old lass?’ teased his aunt in mock outrage.
Probyn laughed, but wagged his finger. ‘I insist you stay, at least for one night.’
Kit looked at the children, affecting terror. ‘Oh, well, if the RSM says I must stay I’d better not argue!’
Then, reverting to her serious mood she rose and drew him aside, murmuring confidentially, ‘Grace doesn’t look too well. Has she seen a doctor?’
Matching his aunt’s secretive tone, Probyn replied that she had. ‘It’s not just the cough, she gets these awful night sweats. It’s like sleeping with an oven. He says it’s just her age, but she’s only thirty-sev—’
‘Aye-aye, what are you two cooking up?’ A smiling Grace came in bearing a tray.
Briskly, Probyn relieved her of the burden. ‘Aunt Kit was asking after your health. I was just telling her what the doctor told you.’ Grace blushed over the lie she had concocted for her husband, fully aware that Probyn knew she was lying over what the doctor had said. What he did not know was that she hadn’t even consulted a doctor at all. As much as she might kid herself that it was lack of time that prevented this, at heart it was fear of what she would be told. ‘What we females suffer, Kit, eh?’ She wafted her face, affecting to be suffering from a hot flush. ‘At least there won’t be any more babies.’ This was issued in a whisper, and punctuated with a little laugh.
Kit smiled back, but a glance at her nephew told her that Probyn was not convinced and neither was she, for she had caught Grace spitting discreetly into her handkerchief when she thought no one was looking, and there had been a trace of red.
But Grace changed the subject. ‘Anyway, sit down and tuck in.’ Everyone did, no further mention made of Grace’s illness. Grace herself made sure of that by nonstop conversation throughout the meal, even though it left her breathless. And afterwards, she supported her husband’s decision that Kit must stay. ‘You can have Beata’s room. Beat, you can go in with your sisters.’
‘I don’t want to kick anybody out of their bed,’ declared Kit. ‘If Beaty doesn’t mind sharing with me I don’t mind either.’
With no option, it was good that Beata was a biddable child, and, squash though it definitely was in the single bed even positioned top to tail alongside Kit’s legs, she secretly felt herself privileged to be the one to share with the visitor, especially as Kit delivered a kiss and cuddle before going to sleep.
* * *
In the morning, though, there was ribbing from Joe. ‘Why, Beat, we expected to see you flat as a pancake!’ Duke chortled at his brother’s humour.
Beata defended her aunt. ‘Don’t be so mean. I like Aunt Kit.’
‘So do I,’ laughed Joe, ‘but I wouldn’t want to sleep with her.’
But despite the teasing all were genuinely sorry to see their aunt leave and, after breakfast, whilst Probyn, Clem and Augusta went off to work, the rest of the family accompanied Kit to the railway station.
Before embarking, Kit pressed a coin into Grace’s hand, murmuring, ‘Buy yourself something nice.’
Grace tried to refuse. ‘Oh, Kit, you’re too generous…’ But in the end she was forced to pocket the money. ‘Well, thank you, I’ll get the children—’
‘I said buy yourself something!’
Grace smiled and nodded, knowing she would not, already calculating what treats she was to purchase for her brood.
It was years since Kit had caught a train and upon trying to board she found that she was far too large to get into the carriage. Attempting to help, Grace applied her hands to Kit’s back and shoved, the girls lending their assistance too, but no amount of pressure would squash that amount of flesh through the doorway. With the children’s laughter becoming almost hysterical, what else could Kit do but treat it as a joke too?
‘Can someone go and ask the porter for a jar of Vaseline?’ After another vain attempt she gave up. ‘Oh, there’s nowt else for it, I shall have to ask if I can travel in the guard’s van!’ And with her giggling entourage in tow she wobbled valiantly down the platform to make enquiries.
But as Kit stepped through the wider door of the guard’s van, Beata saw a flush of embarrassment percolate her great-aunt’s smile and she urged her siblings to be quiet, though the boys still fell about laughing. Grace too, had noted the glint of tears in Kit’s eye, and, in a rush of compassion for the woman, she slapped her boys and told them, ‘That’s enough!’
But it was too late, the damage was done. Despite Kit’s merry wave as the door of the guard’s van closed upon her, it was a very forlorn figure she presented.
* * *
It so plagued Grace that her children were, in part, liable for Kit’s humiliation, that when Probyn’s aunt made another brief visit on her return journey, she did all in her power to make recompense. Noting that, under her smile, Kit was still experiencing worry over her son, Grace suggested that one of the girls should go and stay for a while at the smallholding to help around the place.
‘I don’t really need any help,’ mused Kit whose spirits, having been lifted by the holiday, were now quickly plummeting at the thought of going home to an empty house, ‘but I should be glad to have one of the lasses as company for a while – if the teacher won’t object to their absence.’
‘I’ll come!’ The first to volunteer, Beata’s eager offer was accepted and Grace went to pack a few necessary items for her stay.
As usual there was no shortage of farm wagons on which to hitch a ride from York market, though Beata found it an uncomfortable journey on such a hard wooden seat, particularly as she had not visited the closet before leaving. Upon arrival at Aunt Kit’s she was almost desperate but was first compelled to answer Kit’s demand: ‘Get the kettle on, Beat!’
Squeezing her thighs together, Beata did as required, hopping uncomfortably about the kitchen.
Kit noticed her fraught expression. ‘Is owt wrong, lass?’
‘No, Aunt, it’s just… I’m busting to go to the farleymelow!’
Kit threw back her head and laughed, the kind, hearty laugh of old. ‘By it’s a long time since I’ve heard it called that!’
Crossing her legs for the moment, Beata, encouraged by her great-aunt’s warmth, announced, ‘That’s what Father calls it but he won’t tell me why. Is it rude?’
‘Bless you, no!’ And Kit explained that it was totally meaningless, just one of those silly words that had been passed down through the family. ‘You know that song what goes, “Early one morning just as the sun was rising, I heard a maiden sing in the valley below”? Well, when our Wyn was a little lass when she came to the words “valley below” she sang “farleymelow” because that’s what it sounded like when the teacher sang it to her! And she took it to be some kind of privy, so ever since then it has been, in this family, at least.’
Beata giggled.
Kit chuckled too at the way the child was contorting her lower body. ‘So you’d better trot off there now. I don’t want a puddle on me floor.’
In Beata’s absence Kit made to unpack the child’s bag of belongings. What a pathetic little bundle it was. The spare dress had obviously been handed down, for it was paper-thin. The drawers and stockings were also much darned. Compelled by a rush of emotion, Kit paused only a moment in thought before hurrying from the room.
When Beata returned Aunt Kit was nowhere to be seen, but her anxious call soon gained a reply and, following the sound, Beata thudded up a staircase to find her great-aunt rummaging through a chest. ‘I’ve just remembered! I’ve got a lovely remnant in here somewhere, had it for years. It’s far too small to make owt for me but I couldn’t resist buying it and I knew it’d come in useful some day. It’ll make a dress for you!’
Beata gasped. Never had she worn a dress that had not belonged to her elder sisters. There was an exclamation of triumph as Kit finally located the remnant under a pile of blankets and, with a flourish, spread it across the bed. ‘There! Do you like it?’
Beata gazed upon the black-and-white material, her heart soaring with joy, the newness of its smell teasing her nostrils. She beamed at Kit, nodding rapidly.
‘Good! We’ll make a start right now … Oh, you might be hungry.’
‘I’m not!’ Beata was obviously as keen as Kit to have the dress started.
So they went downstairs where, after a few measurements from this expert seamstress, the pattern was soon mapped out and ready to sew. Throughout the afternoon Beata watched enraptured as her dress took shape, the large woman’s surprisingly nimble fingers applying neat stitches. During a break for tea, the child inserted a digit into the silver thimble that Kit had put aside.
‘Villa Garcia. Where’s that, Aunt?’
‘Oh, it’s in Spain.’ Not wanting to resurrect thoughts of her old lover, Kit fended off any more questions by saying, ‘You shall have that thimble one day if you like it.’
Beata had never really been interested in sewing, but smiled her thanks as her aunt finished her cup of tea and continued on the dress which, by the evening, was ready to wear.
Throughout her short life Beata had never felt so special, inserting her hands into huge pockets that came right down to the hem, twirling happily and, at her aunt’s instruction, moving to a full-length mirror to admire herself, an act not encouraged at home.
And standing behind the excited child, looking at the reflection in the glass, Kit saw her own face infected by the child’s happiness, had a momentary glimpse of her old self, and for that lovely interlude all the awful thoughts were exorcized.
* * *
Other devils were to be banished too. Rallied by one success after another, sweeping all before them, the Allies continued to maintain their glorious offensive, pushing the Germans ever backwards into autumn.
Even so, in those last lingering weeks of a war all but won there were times when Kit despaired that she would ever see her son again; feared that Toby would be killed before an armistice could be signed, or that she herself might be claimed when the dreaded influenza raised its ugly head for another attack, the sequential deaths exhuming painful memories of her husband.
‘Oh, I’m glad I’ve got you, Beat,’ she told her great-niece, who had become a regular visitor. ‘I don’t know how I’d ever get through it.’
Devoid of a suitable response, Beata could only grin. Yet this seemed enough for Aunt Kit, with whom she had forged a closer bond than any enjoyed by Probyn’s other children; to them Kit remained just one of many aunts.
‘Your mother must be proud of you.’ Kit’s smile turned pensive. ‘We should invite her here for a holiday, you know. She needs feeding up and the fresh air would do her a power of good. When you go home, you must tell her.’
Beata promised that she would.
But, ‘When would I have time for a holiday?’ laughed Grace upon being told, even this simple action prompting a fit of coughing. ‘Tell Aunt Kit it’s very kind of her – maybe next year.’
‘But I can still go, can’t I?’ Beata looked apprehensive.
‘Why, of course!’
Brightening, the youngster rummaged in her pocket. ‘Oh, I almost forgot!’ She pulled out a stick of hard liquorice. ‘I bought this for you, to make cough medicine.’
Tears sprang to Grace’s eyes and she fought to hide them with an animated smile as she took acceptance. ‘What a nice, thoughtful thing to do! I feel better already. Right, you go out and play until teatime and I’ll set to work on this.’ Clutching the stick of liquorice in her fist, she dealt Beata a friendly shove towards the door and closed it quickly behind her.
Once alone, she broke into quiet, heart-rending sobs, the stick of liquorice clutched to her frail bosom as she rocked back and forth in her chair, crying, coughing, spitting blood and swearing at the cruel hand of fate.
* * *
Winter had always resonated to the sound of Clem’s bronchitic bark; now it had an ominous echo. Exacerbated by the lack of a proper diet, the seriousness of Grace’s illness became all too apparent to her husband, especially upon discovery of the bloodstained handkerchiefs she had been so careful to hide.
‘Right, I’m calling out the doctor! He must be half-witted to say this is due to your age.’
Alarmed, but too weak to argue, Grace allowed herself to be packed off to bed at the same hour as her younger children, making a joke with them over this as she was escorted upstairs.
Augusta was putting her coat on. ‘You can’t go,’ wheezed her elder brother. ‘It’s too dark.’ After a brief argument with his father over his own bad state of health, Clem insisted on being the one to fetch the doctor, and went out into the cold, damp night. Whilst she and her father waited, hearing her mother’s painful cough from upstairs, a worried Augusta made constant trips to the front room shop, lifting the curtain to see if help was on its way.
She had just gone back into the living room when a brisk rapping came at the door and she hurried to admit the doctor. But it was only a warden.
The face under the tin hat was livid. ‘Get that light off!’
Augusta realized that illumination from the back room was escaping into here and streaming out of the open doorway. Issuing apology, she rushed to close the inner door.
The warden was not satisfied. ‘Somebody at this house keeps flashing!’
Augusta was instantly contrite. ‘I’m sorry, that must have been me. We’re waiting—’
‘Waiting to direct the German bombers?’
‘No! For the doctor.’
Overhearing the altercation, Probyn came striding to the door.
‘Get that light off!’ came the immediate yell.
Probyn slammed the door behind him, then came forth to behold the warden. ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do, you officious little twerp? We’ve got a sick woman in here!’
Deeply insulted, the other’s face twisted in derision. ‘And are you sick an’ all? Too sick to wear a uniform?’
It took a lot to rouse this placid man, but that remark was just too much. Probyn delivered a contemptuous shove with the flat of his palm. The warden stumbled and fell flat on his buttocks.
Hurrying along the dark street, coughing and wheezing, Clem was to witness all this and voiced apology to the doctor, who kept pace with him. ‘I’m sorry, me father’s a bit hot-headed.’ Hiding a private smile behind his fist, he barked to clear his chest of the polluted air.
But there was no amusement later when the doctor was to announce his findings to the patient’s husband, ‘Of course, you know without being told what it is. She should have been admitted to hospital long before this.’
‘Then why didn’t you tell her that when she came to see you?’ Probyn was incensed.
The doctor bristled in turn. ‘Had she been to see me I should undoubtedly have done so!’
During the confused hiatus, one of the other two listeners demanded to know, ‘What’s up with Mother?’
Both the doctor and Probyn looked at Clem. ‘It’s tuberculosis,’ the former told him
less than gently. ‘Of long duration, I suspect.’
Reaching out a comforting hand to his eldest daughter, who looked stricken, an equally upset Probyn sighed and apologized to the doctor. ‘I’m sorry, my wife led me to believe she’d consulted you.’
‘Well, I’m afraid she has not.’ The overworked doctor still wore a look of affront, though it was starting to fade. ‘Would you like me to arrange hospitalization?’
‘Yes,’ said Probyn firmly.
‘No!’
Everyone turned to see Grace’s nightgowned figure hanging onto the jamb for support. Hearing the raised voices, she guessed what had occurred. ‘I’m not going into hospital.’
‘Grace, why did you pretend you’d gone to the doctor’s?’ accused Probyn.
‘Because I don’t need to be told what’s wrong with me. I’m not going into hospital and having the children coming home to an empty house.’
The doctor was brutally honest. ‘It would surely be better than having them come home to no mother at all.’
‘It would only be temporary. We’d cope!’ Probyn begged her. ‘Please, Grace, be—’
‘No!’
Probyn beseeched the doctor, who was equally helpless to persuade Grace.
‘Well, at least try to give yourself a better diet,’ insisted the physician. ‘Eggs, butter, cream, cod-liver oil, plenty of fresh air – and complete rest.’
‘I shall make sure she has all that, Doctor!’ Probyn looked adamant as he threw his wife a warning. ‘And you’d better stick to it, Grace, or I shall take you off to hospital myself, whether you like it or not.’
* * *
But as much as he tried to watch her like a hawk to make sure that she ate the proper foods, Probyn could not be with her all day, and despite all his efforts Grace’s health showed little improvement. Adding their voices to his, her sisters tried to bully her into entering hospital, as did the priest, who called every Sunday, as did Charlotte, who came on her afternoon off every week, all to no effect. She refused to leave her children.
A Different Kind of Love Page 27
