by Nancy Carson
‘They’m no bother, Lizzie. Doh fret theeself. They’ll come to no harm.’
‘Just be sure that if our Henzey’s new chap comes, that his motor’s gone by eleven. I don’t want her to harbour him.’
‘Oh, I’ll soon get rid of him, Lizzie.’
Chapter 27
Beccy Crump retired to bed that night preoccupied. She pinned up her wispy, silver hair and contemplated Lizzie’s insistent questions. There was something badly amiss, and no mistake. Poor Lizzie looked like death warmed up, as if she were carrying the world on her shoulders, and on top of that she was expected to rush to Manchester to look after her ailing sister, who hadn’t been a-nigh Lizzie for years; not even for young Emmie’s funeral. Ezme Clancey, as temperamental as a starving flea on the rump of a rocking horse, was the cause of Lizzie’s worry, that much was certain. What happened with old Isaac was years ago; before Lizzie was born. Lizzie had nothing to do with it, so it was no reason to hold it against Lizzie. But you couldn’t expect Ezme to take kindly to her only son courting her. That would be almost like Eve coming back to haunt her. It was all up to Jesse, and Beccy hoped he was strong enough to stand up to his mother.
It was strange how Lizzie was eager all of a sudden to know about her father. It was strange how she wanted to know why old Jack Clancey disliked him. ‘I thought it might go deeper than that’, she’d said. What was she getting at? Jack was jealous of Isaac, for obvious reasons; like a lot of men on Kates Hill; and beyond if the truth be known. So what did she mean by suggesting it might go deeper? Was there some deeper, hidden mystery that she, Beccy, had not been privy to? She believed she knew everything there was to know about all her friends on Kates Hill. Had something occurred so secret that it must be kept from everybody? If she didn’t know what it was, nobody knew.
Beccy put on her hairnet, then pulled her frock over her head, dislodging her spectacles. ‘Damn and bugger it,’ she cursed, and slid them back into place again. She unfastened the pouch containing her purse that was tied around her waist, and put it on the tallboy. Then she unlaced her corset. As she wallowed in the welcome freedom from constriction, scratching the loose skin of her belly ecstatically, she pondered further Lizzie’s probing. ‘I thought it might go deeper than that.’ Deeper than what, for God’s sake? Deeper than Jack Clancey’s mere dislike of her father? What had Ezme said or done that could cause poor Lizzie to ask such a question, and cause her so much anguish? What could cause Lizzie to roam the streets alone on a night so wet that even a rat wouldn’t venture out.
Lizzie and Jesse had had no row. That was just her excuse. Beccy had seen Lizzie and Jesse embrace in the street late that Sunday night in the pouring rain through her bedroom window. If they’d had a row, they’d soon made it up. No, Lizzie had been told something that had upset her more than anything; that had upset Jesse as well.
Could it have been something to do with Isaac? Something from so long ago? That inscription on his gravestone that Lizzie had queried: ‘They have sown the wind’. What exactly had Eve meant by it? And Lizzie saying, ‘I know who’s going to reap the whirlwind, Beccy, and it isn’t my father’.
What whirlwind? What could be a consequence of Isaac sowing the wind? ‘I know who’s going to reap the whirlwind, Beccy, and it isn’t my father’.
Beccy rolled her corset into a bundle, and placed it on the ottoman. She tugged at her chemise, pulled it over her head, and shivered. As she reached for her thick, winceyette night-dress an intriguing thought crossed her mind. The more she pondered it the more sense it made; the more it answered many, many questions; the more the pieces seemed to fit. Why had she never considered it before? Why had she missed it, till now? What if Jesse happened to be Isaac’s son? … What if Jesse was the consequence of that affair all those years ago? Oh, it was far too outlandish … It couldn’t be … Yet it could be. It must be. Jesse must be Isaac’s son. Damn it, there was even a resemblance now she had made the connection: the fair hair; the steel grey eyes; the big moustache.
So that’s why Lizzie was so upset. She was upset because Ezme had told them they shared the same father. Why hadn’t Lizzie said so, for goodness sake?
Beccy lifted the cover of her commode and eased her voluminous bloomers down her legs, shaking her head. She’d better try and catch Lizzie before she went off to Manchester in the morning.
*
But Beccy Crump overslept next morning. Her mind had been active till the early hours, and she believed she would not sleep at all. She eventually did, however, and did not wake up till half past nine. She got up wearily, dressed herself, and attended to her ablutions as quickly as she could, but it was difficult to break the leisurely routine of many years thriving in measured widowhood, and pampering herself in her old age. She went downstairs, raked out the ashes from the fire and lit a new one. She held her draw-tin against the grate opening till it set alight properly, then grabbed the kettle and took it to the brewhouse to fill it. It could be heating up while she went round to see Lizzie. She tapped on Lizzie’s back door, and lifted the latch to open it. But it was locked. Damn and bugger it. Lizzie must have gone already. Never mind. What she wanted to say would keep until she got back.
She returned to her own fireside. The fire was drawing well and the coals had caught. Beccy reached for her Dutch oven in the bottom cupboard and placed it on the strides overhanging the grate. As the residual fat began to melt she peeled a couple of rashers of bacon from her small stock, and hung them on hooks in the Dutch oven to cook. Next she cut a couple of thick slices of bread, spooned tea leaves into her teapot, then sat for a few minutes, watching. When she got her breath back she picked up the coal scuttle and tottered to the cellar to fill it. She preferred to go down there just once a day, so the scuttle, holding sufficient coal, was heavy to lift on the way back up. But she managed it, in her own unhurried way, resting it on each step for a few a second or two as she ascended. She washed her hands, then returned to the scullery and turned the bacon. It was sizzling beautifully, and the aroma made her feel hungry. The kettle boiled, and she brewed her tea, enough for two large mugs. The bacon looked perfect now, so she lifted the Dutch oven and placed it onto a sheet of newspaper that was covering her scrubbed table. She took the two slices of bread, dipped them in the fat, and with her toasting fork held them in turn in front of the fire to crispen the liquored side. Then, with a blob of HP sauce smeared over the bacon, her breakfast was ready.
When she’d finished she wiped her mouth. Now she would visit Ezme Clancey. Beccy made a habit of calling to see her two or three times a week, usually while Jesse was working. So she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders.
As she walked through the wide entry of the dairy house she saw the doctor’s car. Damn. Friday was his day for visiting. Never mind, you could talk in front of young Doctor Clark. She opened the verandah door and called out, then made her way through to the stairs. ‘Stairs, stairs, it’s all damned stairs,’ she mumbled, gripping the bannister as firmly she could. Eventually, she reached the top, and presented herself at Ezme’s bedroom door, to be greeted by Donald Clark’s ruddy, smiling face.
‘How is she this mornin’, Doctor?’
‘Not so well, Mrs Crump. A bit under the weather, it seems.’
She looked at Ezme, and asked her how she felt. The two women had known each other for years, and although Ezme had lost her hearing she still understood from Beccy’s facial expressions exactly what she was saying.
‘I doh feel too grand, Beccy,’ she moaned, with a pained expression.
‘Has young Lizzie bin to see yer?’
‘Young Lizzie, did yer say?’ Ezme shook her head. ‘No, ’er ai’ bin a-nigh since last Sunday. Our Jesse and Lizzie have fell out.’
Beccy looked at Donald Clark in disbelief. ‘What did they fall out over, Ezme? … I said, what did they fall out over?’
‘I doh know for sure.’
‘Yes, you do.’ Beccy straightened her friend’s counterpane. ‘Now tell me. What did they fall out
over?’
‘Oh, Lizzie wanted to get wed, but our Jesse said as he dai’ want to.’
‘Well that’s a damned lie for a start,’ Beccy remarked to the doctor.
Donald frowned with concern. ‘I believe so, too.’
She turned to Ezme again and shook her head. ‘I doh think as they’ve fell out at all, Ezme. I reckon it was yo’ meddlin’.’
‘No, it was nothin’ to do with me.’
‘Had it got anythin’ to do with Isaac Bishop, then?’
Ezme cupped her hand to her ear and frowned. ‘The fish shop, did yer say?’
‘No. Isaac Bishop,’ she yelled precisely. She turned to Donald again. ‘I realise as yo’ cor’ say nothin’, Doctor, ’cause yo’m bound to keep confidences, but I can say as I’d a mind.’ Donald smiled and nodded. ‘Well, it’s my belief as Isaac Bishop was Jesse’s father, you know, not Jack. And because of it ’er’s seen fit to use it to put a stop to their courtin’.’
‘Mmm! That’s my understanding as well, Beccy. But if it’s true, then Jesse can’t marry Lizzie.’
‘I know that an’ all, Doctor, but just ’ang on a minute.’
Ezme shuffled nervously, looking from one to the other. ‘Isaac Bishop, did yer say? What about ’im?’
Beccy addressed Ezme again. ‘Isaac was Jesse’s father. Am I right?’
Ezme began to weep silently. ‘Yes,’ she confessed with a wheeze, ‘he was, and I hope as the good Lord’ll forgive me for the terrible sin o’ lyin’ with him. But I loved him, Beccy. Oh, I loved him all right.’ She took the handkerchief that was on her bedside table and wiped her tears. ‘I loved him more than anybody’ll ever know. But when he found out as I was carryin’, he dai’ want to know me, the swine, and I was in lumber good and bloody proper. Mercifully, Jack was as good as gold about it.’
‘So yo’ told Jesse and Lizzie so’s they wouldn’t get married, eh?’
‘They cor’ get married, Beccy. They’m brother and sister. It’d be a cardinal sin. Yo’ ask the vicar.’
‘I’ve no need to ask the damned vicar. The trouble is yo’ only know half the story, as bloody usual. Still, yo’ war’ to know, I reckon.’ She leaned closer to Ezme, shaking her head. ‘Jesse an’ Lizzie ai’ brother an’ sister at all. Tom Dando’s Lizzie’s father. D’y’ear what I say, Ezme? Tom and Eve was havin’ it off for years.’
Donald gulped. ‘Mrs Crump, are you absolutely certain of this?’ His expression was grave.
‘As certain as I’m standin’ ’ere. I know it for a fact, Doctor. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, Eve always used to say. I tell yer, there was some tidy shenanigans gooin’ on round here in them days – there was no sittin’ in th’ouse pullin’ faces at the parrot then. Me and Eve was ever so close. Two friends have never bin closer. ’Er used to tell me everythin’. Absolutely everythin’. Enough to open my eyes wide, I can tell yer. And I do know for certain as Lizzie is Tom’s daughter, and no mistek. Eve always told me ’er was, and I got no reason to misbelieve her. Why yo’ only ’ave to look at the wench to see the resemblance to Tom. Lizzie’s nothin’ like Isaac. Nothin’ like Jesse.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Crump, very much,’ Donald said. ‘That’s near enough. It means they can get married after all.’
‘That’s what I wanted to say, Doctor. It’s what I wanted to tell Lizzie this mornin’ afore ’er went off to Manchester.’
Donald looked at his watch anxiously. It was quarter to eleven. He snatched up his bag. ‘Mrs Crump, I’ll tell Lizzie for you, but I’ll have to go this very minute. Can I leave you with Ezme? See if you can make her get used to the idea of Jesse and Lizzie being married, will you? I’d take you with me, but I fear you’d slow me down, and I might be too late already.’
‘Yo’ carry on, Doctor,’ Beccy consented, her face set in a puzzled expression.
‘What’s he took short?’ Ezme asked as Donald hastened out of the room. ‘He ai’ examined me nor nothin’.’
‘Listen, Ezme, there’s one or two things I’ve got to explain to yer.’
*
Donald Clark was normally a steady driver. He was a hardened drinker, and excessive use of alcohol had taught him never to trust his own reactions, especially when inebriated at the wheel of his Morris. This morning he was stone cold sober, however; or to be more precise, he was as sober as you would ever expect to find him. He drove therefore, with a little more alacrity and purpose than usual, all the way to the Guest Hospital, taking risks he would not normally take, praying he would be in time to prevent the termination of Lizzie Kite’s pregnancy. As he swung violently into the hospital grounds the car lurched to one side, and the tyres squealed momentarily, while a passing nurse feigned disdain at such appalling driving. The car juddered to a halt at the entrance to the building. He leapt out and rushed along the corridor to his left, seeking the ward where he hoped she would be. A few seconds later he presented himself at the entrance to the women’s ward, panting for breath.
‘I’m looking for Mrs Elizabeth Kite,’ he gasped to the first uniformed woman he saw, a short, dark-haired nurse with a squint. ‘Most likely gave her name as Lizzie. Is she still here?’
‘Is she supposed to be in this ward?’
‘She’s in for a pregnancy termination.’
‘An abortion? Fancy. What did you say her name was?’
‘Elizabeth or Lizzie Kite.’
‘Elizabeth Kite? Hang on, let me check.’
Donald wanted to tell her to hurry up. These moments stalling could be the difference between saving Lizzie’s child and losing it.
‘Am you sure she’s supposed to be here? We got nobody here called Elizabeth Kite. Nor Lizzie. Not according to this.’ She waved a record of the days admittances in front of him. ‘Oh, yes, she’s expected, but she ain’t been admitted.’
‘Look, nurse, she has to be here. I’m her doctor. It’s vital I find her before they operate on her. There’s been a dreadful mistake. Find out where she is, woman, and take me to her at once.’
The urgency in his voice prompted the nurse to find the ward sister, who listened intently to his story. She slid some papers across the desk and paused, scanning one of them. ‘I’m sorry, doctor. Her name’s down here, but she certainly isn’t here.’
*
Donald scoured the streets of Kates Hill for sight of Jesse or his horse and float. Jesse might know where Lizzie was. If not, he feared she might have done something drastic. It was vital they track her down. When she’d called to tell him about her plight she was distraught. He’d never seen her in such a state before. Depressed and overworked, yes, but never utterly defeated. The fact that she had avoided going to hospital suggested something was wrong. Donald drove up and down every street searching, his anxiety rising by the minute. A new council estate had been built – the Roseland. Jesse might be around there. To his relief he spotted Jesse’s unattended float just as he turned the corner into Bunns Lane. He pulled up behind it and waited for Jesse to return. Fortunately he did not have to wait long. Jesse came walking down the path of one of the houses, and Donald at once leapt out of his Morris.
‘Jesse, thank God I’ve found you. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
‘Blimey, Donald, what’s up? Is it Mother?’
‘No, no, your mother’s all right. It’s Lizzie.’
Jesse instantly paled, and a look of dread clouded his face. ‘Oh, Donald, what is it? If she’s … What is it, Donald?’
‘She seems to be missing, Jesse. I thought you might know where she is.’
‘But she was due to go into hospital this morning. You ought to know. You fixed it.’
Donald put his hand on Jesse’s arm as a calming gesture, but inside he was simmering with anxiety. ‘Yes, I know she’s supposed to be in hospital, but I’ve just come from there, and she hasn’t been admitted. I thought maybe you might know if she’s changed her plans.’
‘Why should she change her plans, Donald? There’s no alternative,
is there, the way things have turned out?’
Donald smiled. ‘I need to talk to her, Jesse. I have to talk to you as well. It’s not all bad news, you see. But we must find her to let her know.’
Jesse put his jug and ladle into a churn and sighed. ‘What are you on about, Donald?’
‘I was attending your mother earlier, and Beccy Crump came over. I got the impression that Beccy had got a point to make. She evidently knew, or rather had guessed, who your real father was, and she asked your mother if that was the reason you’d abandoned your intention to get married.’ Jesse was listening intently, his eyes fixed on Donald’s. ‘Well, when your mother confirmed it, Beccy told her off for meddling.’
Jesse forced a smile. ‘Good old Beccy.’
‘But you see, Jesse, Beccy maintains that even though Isaac Bishop was your father, it doesn’t make any difference. It just doesn’t matter.’
‘Doesn’t matter? How d’you make that out? It’s the very reason we can’t be wed.’
‘But, Jesse. Isaac wasn’t Lizzie’s father.’
‘Eh? … You what?’ … This was going to take a second or two to sink in. ‘Well if Isaac wasn’t her father, Donald, who the bloody hell was?’
‘Tommy Dando.’
‘Tommy Dando?’
‘Apparently Tommy and Eve had been … how shall I put it? … very close for a number of years. Very close indeed. Beccy, God bless her, had been privy to all the intimate details – from Eve, of course – and she’s adamant that Lizzie is Tom’s daughter. That being so, there’s nothing to stop you getting married after all.’
‘But what about if she’s wrong, Donald? What if she’s got it all wrong?’
‘Jesse … if I were you I wouldn’t argue with it.’
Jesse’s face lit up and his blue-grey eyes sparkled. He threw his arms about Donald, and started jumping up and down, whirling him round in a sort of spontaneous dance, for all to see.
‘Jesse!’ Donald tried to shove him off, but laughed all the same. ‘Stop it, stop it … Ouch! Pack it in … Christ, you’ve trod on me blinking corns!’
