Winnie took little Sadie from Ruth and they sat to the table, each with a blonde, rosy-cheeked baby on her lap.
‘Who’s a little cheeky face then?’ Winnie assumed the special high-pitched voice she reserved for baby talk, which always made Ruth cringe as she talked of such things as bow-wows, chuck-chucks and puff-puffs. Yet Ruth wouldn’t have said anything to hurt the good woman’s feelings for the world.
‘Is your Billy at school then?’ Winnie asked.
‘Oh, yes. Nothing would keep him away.’
‘Aye, he’s a good lad, your Billy. A pity his father isn’t as conscientious. I suppose he had another skinful last night.’
‘Oh, I hope he didn’t keep you all awake, Mrs Armitage. You must have heard him come home – I should think everyone in the Place did.’
‘Never mind, lass. As long as he was singing I wasn’t bothered. It’s when he comes home cursing that worries me. Why don’t yer leave him, lass?’
Ruth gave a cynical smile. ‘What, with three kids? Where would I go?’
‘Back home. I know for a fact yer father would take yer in.’
‘Oh yes, our dad would, and since you mention it our mam would too. But just imagine what it would be like. She would never stop saying “I told you so”. She never lets me forget it even now. Oh, no, I couldn’t stand it. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to lumber her with three youngsters at her age.’
‘Well, yer mother does have a point, love. She begged yer not to marry him.’
‘I know that, but it only makes me more determined.’
‘Well, I’d rather you than me. Where’s he got the money from this time?’
Ruth swallowed hard before replying, as though a lump was choking her. ‘He’s been to the pawnshop again. The canteen of Sheffield cutlery the girls at work bought me for a wedding present.’ Ruth began to sob. ‘Oh, Mrs Armitage, what can I do?’
‘Nay, lass, I’ll be buggered if I know, apart from getting old Buttercup to give yer summat to poison him with.’
Ruth couldn’t help smiling through her tears. Mrs Armitage always made her feel better.
‘Here, hold her a minute.’ Winnie placed Sadie on Ruth’s other knee. ‘I’ll just have to knock back me dough, love.’ She emptied the dough on to the floured board, floured her hands and proceeded to knead the bread dough, the muscles in her arms flexing as hard as any man’s as she did so. Then she formed it into flat cakes and placed them on a baking tray, blackened with use over the years. ‘I’ll bring yer round a couple when they come out of the oven,’ she promised.
‘Oh no, I couldn’t,’ Ruth said. ‘Besides, I already have some bread. I got my laundry money yesterday, and I always make sure I spend it on bread and a pot of jam before anything else.’
‘Bloody bread and jam, and breast-feeding two bairns. No wonder yer all skin and bone. Yer need some good stew down yer, your Billy as well. As for that bugger, I should think he’d have room for nowt in his belly except the ale.’
Ruth rose to her feet. ‘Look, our Frankie has dropped off. I’ll go put him in the pram and get some ironing done while I have the chance.’
‘Aye, all right, lass. And see if you can put yer feet up a bit. They look right swelled to me.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about me. I might get low sometimes, but physically I’m as fit as a fiddle.’
‘Aye, well, you’ll need to be with three bairns. And think on, keep yer legs crossed or he’ll get yer another right quick.’
‘Not while I’m breast-feeding, I hope. Our Lizzie says I won’t catch on as long as I’m feeding.’
‘Not in every case, lass. You can’t depend on it. Besides, it hasn’t stopped your Lizzie, has it? How many has she now?’
‘Five, and another on the way and none of them seem to bother her.’
‘But she’s a good man in George.’
‘Yes, one of the best, and so has our Alice.’
‘Oh, don’t mention Joe Jackson to me. I shall never forget the kindness he showed to my Albert when he was in hospital. Couldn’t do enough to help, and he was only a young man at the time. Oh, I know they were both in the Oddfellows, but apart from coming on their behalf he helped in so many ways. I’ll never forget and nobody mon say a wrong word to me about Joe Jackson or they’ll have me to deal with.’
Ruth chuckled. ‘And if Winnie Armitage starts to deal with them they’d better watch out.’ She was still smiling as she set off for home.
‘’Ere, hang on. I’ll come with yer and carry the pie.’
‘Oh, Mrs Armitage, I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re like a second mother to me.’
‘Aye well, you know where I am if you need me, love.’
‘I do, and it helps, thanks.’
They lifted the washing on the lines as they wended their way across the yard. ‘This lot’s dry. I’ll pop the pie on the table and then I’ll bring it in for yer. If I fold it carefully yer might get away without ironing some of it.’
‘Oh, I iron the lot. I couldn’t bear to think they weren’t ironed.’
Winnie smiled. ‘Yer’ll learn, lass, as yer get older. What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.’ Then she began to gather in the washing before it became too dry to be ironable.
Ruth placed the babies one at each end of the pram. Soon they’d be too big and have to be put to bed in the afternoon. She stood the flat iron on the hob and folded a blanket across the table with an upturned enamel dish to stand the iron on. What a life – nothing but drudgery day in day out. If only the house would stay clean once it was done, but every day the whole place had to be gone over again. It wasn’t too bad whilst the twins were babies, but Ruth was dreading the toddling stage when it would be impossible to leave the door open in case one of them wandered off towards the river. She glanced in the pram. Oh, but they were beautiful, worth all the work, and Ruth was so proud when she wheeled them over to Lizzie’s or to see Alice on the green. People would stand and admire them. In fact the only one who didn’t seem proud was their own father. Some times he didn’t seem to remember they were there at all, except when they would cry and he would bawl at them fit to waken the dead. Even Billy could not arouse Walter’s interest. He would bring pictures home after a drawing lesson at school, or a paper with all the sums correct and a V Good to prove his ability, and Walter would merely grunt and push the child aside. At first Ruth would cover up for her husband with the excuse that he had been working and was tired, but Billy was too intelligent to be hoodwinked and soon realised his father wasn’t interested in him, his mother, or anything at all except the beer.
Ruth’s stomach turned a somersault as she heard Walter’s feet on the cobbles outside the door. She prayed to God that he would be in a reasonable frame of mind as she hurriedly cleared away the ironing from the table and replaced it with a cloth. He didn’t like it if his dinner wasn’t ready to be served on his arrival. She brought a cottage pie from the oven. He would complain about the lack of meat but that couldn’t be helped.
Walter threw his jacket over the pram handle, causing Frankie to stir. Luckily he settled down again and Ruth breathed a sigh of relief. Surely it wasn’t natural to live in fear of one’s husband.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, sitting to the table.
‘Cottage pie,’ she answered brightly. ‘And there’s rhubarb and date to follow.’
‘Is this all there is?’ he asked, stabbing the potato topping with his fork. ‘No greens?’
‘No. In fact you’re lucky to have that. Our Billy and me have had nothing except a potato in its skin.’
‘Our Billy’s not a grown man, nor is he working.’
‘Neither are you most of the time.’ Ruth knew she had made a mistake the minute the words left her tongue. The knife and fork few across the table in Ruth’s direction and Walter sprang to his feet, undoing his belt as he approached her. She grabbed the iron from the hearth, holding it out in front of her. ‘Don’t you touch me, Walter Wray, or I�
�ll mark you with the iron and that’s a promise.’
His raised arm lowered reluctantly and he backed away. ‘One of these days I’ll smash that pretty face in, just you wait.’
‘And one of these days I’ll swing for you, Walter Wray, I bloody will.’ Ruth felt ashamed as the swear word slipped out. ‘Now, eat your dinner, or our Billy’ll eat it and enjoy it.’
‘Oh aye, that’d suit yer, wouldn’t it, little Billy getting the meat and me the taties.’
‘We could all have the meat if you’d go to work and bring home some money instead of handing it over the Rag bar. Don’t you know you’re a laughing stock? Don’t you know they’re laughing at you for keeping the landlord’s money rolling in?’ Before Walter could retaliate Ruth grabbed the pram and hurried it out of the door as her husband staggered once more to his feet. Fortunately his gait was unsteady and his wife was too quick for him. With a bit of luck he would go to bed; with an extra bit of luck he might fall from the top to the bottom of the stairs.
Ruth prayed for forgiveness for her thoughts as she wheeled the twins over the cobbles towards the bridge. She would meet Billy out of school and take the kids to see their grandparents. Emily would like that and she needn’t know that the visit was a means of escaping, from the man Ruth had long since ceased to love. Now never a day went by when she didn’t regret marrying Walter Wray, the idle, drunken bully everybody except herself had recognised. Ruth held her shoulders back and her head high as she climbed Queen Victoria Street. She knew one thing for sure: Walter Wray would never wear her down, no matter what he did. She had her children to consider. Three lovely children, and no one except Mrs Armitage would ever know the humiliation she was forced to suffer for their sakes.
When Emily opened the door she was greeted with her daughter’s radiant smile and nobody, not even her own mother, would have guessed at the ache in Ruth Wray’s heart.
Although Harry Crossman tried not to be, he couldn’t help thinking he was his Grandad Stanford’s favourite. Not that he was treated any differently from the rest of the grandchildren. Every Saturday morning his cousin Joseph, Olive and himself would take the others down to Miss Fiddler’s sweetshop, each with a penny given to them by Grandad Stanford, and there they would stand, noses pressed against the window as they decided what to spend the money on. Sometimes they would choose a twist of marry-me-quick or a liquorice shoelace. Then Olive would take Bessie, Jimmy and Mary back home where they would share out the sweets and then go out to play in the garden George had developed by the side of the house. It had been walled in so that the children could play in safety, giving Lizzie peace of mind.
Afterwards Harry, Joseph and sometimes Billy – if he wasn’t out collecting wood in the self-constructed old barrow – would go along to the green to play football. Grandad Stanford or Grandad Wray would come along sometimes and watch their games, and though Billy was more agile and had a stronger left foot Grandad would never praise one against the other. Oh no, there was never any favouritism expressed. It was on a Tuesday that the special closeness between Harry and Isaac came to the fore. That was the night of the penny library down by the smithy, and Harry would accompany his grandfather to spend sometimes a full hour, browsing and discussing in a whisper the many delights upon the shelves.
Harry loved the atmosphere of the penny library: the fusty, dusty smell of the books; the calm and quiet as they examined the wealth of wisdom and wonder within the pages. Isaac would recommend the ones he had read and they would choose three, sometimes four, to borrow until the following week. Then they would saunter home, discussing all manner of things, from trains to motor cars, Isaac’s anxiety about a man called Hitler being appointed Chancellor of Germany and problems close to home, here in Yorkshire.
‘Fill thy head with knowledge, lad, and it’ll never be wasted.’ Isaac would advise his grandson on all manner of things and Harry would nod his head solemnly, and dream that one day he would go to college or university where he could absorb even more knowledge. He knew his hopes were probably in vain for theirs was a poor family, albeit a happy one, and he suspected he would never realise his ambition. If he had been in Joseph’s shoes, money would have been forthcoming, but Joseph had no such scholarly leanings; all Joseph talked about were motors and engines. His cousin Billy on the other hand wanted the outdoor life of a farmer but knew he would have no alternative but to enter the steel works as soon as they would employ him. So Harry cast aside his dream of a decent education and thanked God he wasn’t in Billy’s shoes, for Billy wasn’t only poor where money was concerned, he had never had a loving father’s support. And although Joseph Jackson would never want for anything, Harry considered being an only child must be an absolute tragedy. So he absorbed the knowledge from the library and enjoyed the close companionship he shared with his grandfather, at the same time considering himself luckier than either of his cousins, especially as he believed himself to be his grandad’s favourite. He did sometimes wonder, though, how many more babies would be born before his parents decided enough was enough. Not that he didn’t like having brothers and sisters, but money was scarce and the younger girls were beginning to complain about always having to wear hand-me-downs.
It wasn’t only Harry whose thoughts were on limiting the family. Lizzie hoped that when the expected baby was born it would be the last. The trouble was she seemed to catch on when George as much as looked at her. George talked about a kind of rubber thing which would prevent her becoming pregnant but never seemed to do anything about it until it was too late. Perhaps Old Mother would know what to do. She would ask her when she came to deliver the child. In the meantime Lizzie went serenely about her duties, delighted now that George had done out the loft and added a ladder for the boys to climb. With a double bed manoeuvred up there, the girls had a room of their own and there was more privacy for George and herself.
Ernest Crossman was born on a beautiful summer’s day. Afterwards Lizzie said to Old Mother, ‘I hope I don’t have another in a hurry.’
Old Mother looked at her. ‘No, lass, this’ll be the last. I told yer there’d be a half a dozen babbies and that’s the lot.’
‘But how can I be sure? I don’t want to risk it and I love George, Old Mother. I can’t deny him his comfort and I wouldn’t wish to.’ Lizzie blushed but Old Mother just grinned her toothless smile.
‘What you need, lass, is a sponge if you axe me.’
‘A sponge! what kind of sponge?’
‘A sponge soaked in vinegar and put inside yer.’
‘Will that prevent me becoming pregnant again?’
‘It might and it might not, but it’ll be better than naught, and wont do any harm.’ Old Mother rocked little Ernest in her arms. ‘Not that you will need it. This little man’ll be the last.’
‘Oh, I hope you’re right, but then you usually are. Where and how you became so wise, that’s what I’d like to find out.’
‘That’s what they’d all like to find out, but I shan’t be telling anybody till I’m good and ready.’
Lizzie knew that would be the last word on the subject and resigned herself to taking it easy for a few days. Emily would no doubt be down to spoil her, and Alice. She wondered how Alice had avoided becoming pregnant again but it wasn’t a subject she could approach her sister about. She would try the sponge all the same.
She put the baby to her breast, experiencing once again the feeling of satisfaction in feeding her child. She would miss this fulfilment which only a mother could know, but it was time to call it a day. Half a dozen mouths to feed were enough for anyone these days. She would mention to Ruth about the sponge, before Walter Wray decided to increase his family, a family he neither cherished nor supported. She sighed contentedly. Oh, she did love George. He would be pleased about the sponge, she knew he would.
She called to Olive, who was no doubt clearing up downstairs, ‘You can bring them up to see the baby now, Olive love.’ The stampede up the stairs caused the bed to shake and then they
shyly entered the room, Olive carrying Mary in her arms.
‘Are you all right, Mam?’
‘I’m fine, love. Come and look at the baby,’ Lizzie invited. They crept silently round the bed and peeped one at a time at their new brother. ‘Is it a boy baby?’ Jimmy enquired.
‘Yes. We’re to call him Ernest.’
‘Good. We’ve got enough girls.’
‘We’ve got enough lads an’ all,’ Bessie said. ‘Besides, I don’t like Ernest for a name. I want him to be called Edward.’
‘Then he shall be. He’ll be called Ernest Edward, specially for you.’ Lizzie knew Bessie was usually the jealous one and hoped to avoid any animosity between the children.
Bessie’s eyes lit up and she snuggled down on the bed close to Lizzie. ‘Can I hold him?’
‘Yes, each of you can hold him in turn, if you’re careful not to drop him.’
‘Or squeeze him,’ Olive added, ever the little mother. Oh, but Old Mother had been right: her eldest daughter was turning into a beauty. Lizzie looked from one to the other. They were all beautiful, even the boys. She was so fortunate. When she went to chapel to be churched she would say a prayer, a special prayer, thanking God for her fortune. But she still hoped little Ernest Edward would be the last.
Joseph tapped on Lizzie’s door and entered. Nobody ever waited outside Auntie Lizzie’s; it was home to any child who knew any of the Crossmans and sometimes Joseph wondered how everybody fitted in. The large table was usually set for some meal or other and in between meals a neighbour, a friend or one of the many Crossman relatives would more often than not be perched up to it for a gossip and a cup of tea. It wasn’t a bit like Joseph’s house, where the red plush table cover with its tassels to the floor was hastily replaced after every meal and the vase of flowers set in the centre. Joseph definitely preferred Auntie Lizzie’s, where nobody was ever bored, or reprimanded for not wiping their feet. Not that he didn’t appreciate his home and his mother and father who loved him dearly, but Auntie Lizzie’s was a happy house.
The Stanford Lasses Page 8
