The Stanford Lasses

by Glenice Crossland

  ‘Oh aye, you and who else?’

  ‘Our Lizzie and Alice and the kids.’

  ‘And I suppose they’ll have let their husbands come home after a hard day’s work to an empty house and no dinner ready.’

  ‘Yes, I expect they will, except that your dinner was ready and only needed warming.’

  ‘Then it wasn’t ready, was it?’

  ‘It would have been if you’d have come home at your usual time. What’s happened, has the Rag burned down or something?’

  Walter reached over suddenly and grabbed hold of his wife’s blouse front, pulling her forward so that a couple of buttons flew across the room.

  ‘Don’t tear my blouse, please, Walter.’ Ruth decided to try being nice to him. Difficult as it was.

  ‘Oh, and who bought it then, this blouse of yours? Some man, eh?’ He grabbed her cheek, pinching it between his fingers. ‘You don’t get tarted up like that to go out with yer sisters and their kids.’

  ‘Where else would I get dressed up for? I never go out.’ She pulled away from him and managed to get the table between them. ‘You never take me anywhere. And don’t you dare accuse me of having a fellow, though not many would blame me if I had.’

  Walter circled the table suddenly and the back of his hand suddenly smashed into his wife’s face, knocking her backwards with its force. Ruth didn’t cry out. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, or let the children see she was hurt.

  ‘Don’t, Dad. Don’t hit me mam. Look, I’ve got some money here. You can have it, if yer don’t hit me mam again.’ Billy threw a handful of small change on to the table.

  ‘Oh aye, and I suppose she gave you money instead of putting a decent meal on the table.’ Walter gathered up the money, wondering if it would be enough to pay for a pint. The only reason he was home early was because he had been refused any more beer on the slate by the landlord’s wife.

  Billy stood close to his mother with a protective arm round her. ‘She didn’t. I earned it. I got the coal in for Mr Baraclough, and he gave it me.’

  ‘Aye, well, it’s about time you started earning yer keep.’ He looked at Ruth, who was as white as a sheet, except for the blood oozing from her cut lip. He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her before skulking out of the kitchen and along towards the pub.

  ‘Oh, Mam.’ Billy got a chair and helped his mother towards it. Then he fetched a flannel and dabbed at her face. The twins began to cry, as though they were frightened to do so whilst their father was in the room. ‘Shall I fetch Mrs Armitage?’

  ‘No, Billy,’ Ruth answered shakily. ‘I shall be all right. But you shouldn’t have given him your money. You worked hard for it, and now it’ll be wasted on ale.’

  ‘I didn’t want him to hit you again. I know I shouldn’t have given it him. It was for you.’ He began to sob. ‘Oh, Mam, I hate him. I wish he were dead.’

  ‘Don’t say that, love.’

  ‘I do, though.’ Ruth hugged him close and they rocked together, oblivious of the twins who had found the remains of the picnic and were consoling themselves by gobbling a sandwich each. ‘I do. I wish he would bugger off and never come back.’

  ‘Billy, I’ll have none of that language in this house.’ But she hugged her son tighter. ‘I know, though,’ she said, and to herself she whispered, ‘And you’re not the only one, son. So do I.’

  Old Mother was uneasy. She didn’t usually turn out after dusk, although sometimes she would sit on her doorstep and think of the old days, but tonight she wrapped a shawl round her shoulders and ambled down to Wire Mill Place, where she tapped lightly on the door, knowing the twins would be asleep and loath to wake them.

  ‘Are you in?’ she called as she pressed the sneck and opened the door slightly.

  Ruth was sitting at the table with her head resting on her folded arms. She hastily changed position, trying to conceal her anguish.

  ‘Old Mother, what’s wrong? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m all right. It’s you who’s summat wrong if you axe me.’ She lifted Ruth’s chin and examined her swollen cheek and cut lip. ‘It’s a blessing he hasn’t knocked top off yer beauty spot. They can be funny things if disturbed.’

  Ruth cringed. ‘Beauty spot? Is that what you’d call it? It’s exactly like the one on the end of Walter’s you know what, and there’s nothing beautiful about that.’

  ‘He wants a horsewhip taking to him if you axe me.’ Ruth tried to smile but it hurt too much. ‘And locking up in the madhouse and never let out,’ the old woman added. ‘I’ll hop along home and fetch some tincture of arnica. It’s the best thing for bathing bruises if you axe me. I’ll not be long before I’m back.’

  Ruth didn’t argue. She was too dispirited, and already dreading her husband’s return. She knew he would either be filled with remorse and insist on making love – her face slipped at the expression but soon slipped back as the pain shot about her jaw – or he would be spoiling for another fight. She wondered how much more she could endure.

  Old Mother was busy bathing Ruth’s face when Walter Wray entered the kitchen. The old woman ignored him and so did Ruth.

  ‘What’s going on here, then? A bloody hospital now, is it?’

  The old woman carried on and Ruth found the pain easing already beneath the gentle hands.

  ‘Who sent for the old witch then?’ When nobody answered he came round the table to confront the pair. ‘Are yer deaf or summat? I happen to be talking to you.’

  ‘Please, Walter, I’ve had enough for one day. Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll be up as soon as I’ve packed your snap for morning.’

  ‘I’ll go when I’m ready and I’ll not go at all while the old hag’s here.’ Old Mother never batted an eyelid and continued her work, making a poultice now to leave with her patient. Walter’s temper was rising to boiling point and he suddenly grabbed at Old Mother’s head.

  ‘Let go of my hair,’ Old Mother said in her posh voice, the voice that had once been her normal one many years ago, before she had adopted the broad Yorkshire dialect of the locals. Walter yanked harder at the lank, grey tresses.

  ‘Let go of her now,’ Ruth demanded. She picked up the scissors Old Mother had been using to cut the linen. ‘Or I’ll kill you.’ Walter smirked and Ruth gripped the scissors firmly, the blades pointing towards her husband. He let go of the handful of hair and lunged for them. Unfortunately Ruth plunged them towards him at the same time and the sharp, slim points dug deep into his cheek. Ruth recoiled as she realised the instrument had found its mark. Walter’s face paled as he touched the wound and his fingers came away covered in warm, flowing blood.

  Old Mother lifted the dripping flannel, wrung it almost dry and pressed it firmly against his cheek. ‘Well, are yer satisfied?’ she asked the trembling man. ‘Yer should be now the lass has got even. An eye for an eye, and it might have been an eye. Another inch higher and it would have been.’ Ruth shivered at the thought, but Old Mother continued, ‘Should have been yer throat if you axe me.’

  Walter never uttered a word. His face was ashen and Ruth thought he might faint. ‘Oh, God,’ she thought, ‘and there we were wishing he were dead.’

  Old Mother laughed as she poured more boiling water into the basin, knowing how it would smart when she pressed the hot flannel once again on to the wound. ‘Where’s the big, strong man now then, the one who beats a helpless woman?’ Walter trembled, still not saying a word. ‘Looks like he’s a coward if you axe me, a coward and a bully. Oh aye, it ought to have been yer throat she cut, and no one would grieve, no one at all.’ She finally set down the flannel. ‘I reckon yer’ll do.’ She went to empty the bloody water down the low, stone sink.

  ‘I’ll be going up then,’ Walter said tremulously. He looked from one to the other but nobody answered. Then he made towards the stairs, feeling at the wound gingerly and wondering what the men at work would say, especially if any of them saw Ruth’s swollen face. Bloody hell, she might have blinded him. Never once did he
feel any sympathy for his wife. Old Mother was right as usual. Walter Wray was a coward and a bully, and now, with his scarred face, even his looks were less than perfect.

  Chapter Four

  When the schoolmaster came to Lizzie’s they were just about to sit down to tea. Olive opened the door and then slunk away upstairs, thinking he had called about her absenteeism. Olive thought school a waste of time and though she was bright as a button, and well above average when it came to lessons, she much preferred learning from Grandma Burlington, as she now called her old friend. So, remembering the afternoons she had played truant to spend them amongst the herbs and mysteries at Old Mother’s cottage, she sneaked away seeped in guilt.

  As it happened, the visit was nothing at all to do with Olive. The schoolmaster was here to talk about Harry.

  ‘I’ve just made the tea. Would you like a cup?’ Lizzie wasn’t at all sure how to treat a guest as important as Mr Jones.

  ‘No, I won’t be long about my business. My wife will have a meal ready. Thank you all the same.’

  ‘Well, sit down anyway. Mr Crossman will be home any time now.’ Lizzie didn’t like to ask what he meant by business. She hoped her children hadn’t been misbehaving. If any of them had it would ten to one be Jimmy, who was always up to some mischief or other.

  ‘You will be wondering why I am here, Mrs Crossman. I’m sure you will be most proud when I tell you that your son Harry has been offered a place at grammar school. Unfortunately, he has refused to even discuss the subject. Simply says that he doesn’t wish to accept.’

  Harry’s face was scarlet as he found himself being stared at by everybody in the room. Lizzie gazed at her son with pride. ‘I don’t think that’s the case, Mr Jones,’ she said. ‘But I’m proud of my son for using that as an excuse. The trouble is, we simply could not afford to send him, and Harry would realise that.’

  ‘But surely Harry must be given the opportunity. He has a remarkable capacity for knowledge. It would be sacrilege for his education to be neglected.’

  ‘Be that as it may, Mr Jones, we have five other children besides Harry. It would be even more sacrilegious for them to go hungry in order to pay for books and uniforms. Nobody is more sorry than I am, but it can’t be done. My children are wearing hand-me-downs as it is. My husband works like a slave, he does not drink or smoke and not a penny is wasted on frivolities. So it would be impossible to economise in order for my son to have fancy blazers and scarlet ties, not to mention leather satchels and sports equipment.’

  ‘But you will regret your decision, I know you will. Harry could rise to great heights given the opportunity.’

  ‘Regrets do not enter into it. It is the purse strings that will not stretch to meet the costs. I’m sorry, Mr Jones. It isn’t our fault my son cannot attend grammar school, but the fault of the authorities who require the pupils to wear special uniforms and purchase their own equipment.’ Lizzie was on her soapbox. ‘It is one way of making sure poor children are denied the chance to make good, Mr Jones. One way of giving only the children of the wealthy the opportunity to rise to great heights, as you so aptly put it.’

  ‘But won’t you at least consider ways and means?’

  ‘The only ways and means lies with the authorities, as I have just said, and you know as well as I do that their consideration will be for the rich, as always. And now, Mr Jones, if you don’t wish to take tea with us perhaps you won’t mind if I feed my family, which is the main priority in our humble abode.’

  Mr Jones rose to his feet, fidgeting with his trilby as he made for the door. Lizzie suddenly felt sorry for the man. ‘It was kind of you to come. I know you have my son’s welfare at heart, but it really can’t be done. You do understand?’

  ‘Yes, I do see. It is an unfair society in which we live, Mrs Crossman, when children are deprived of an education because of their class.’

  ‘Unfair! I don’t think that’s the word I would use, Mr Jones, more like disgraceful. But I have every faith in my son, and I’m sure that even without a place at grammar school he will still rise to great heights.’

  ‘I hope so, Mrs Crossman. I sincerely hope so.’

  By the time George arrived home Lizzie had recovered from her outburst and was serving out the thick brown hash.

  ‘Dad, Dad, Old Jonesy has been, here to our house.’ Bessie couldn’t wait to report on the visit. ‘And you ought to have heard our mam.’

  ‘What’s all this about, Lizzie?’ George frowned anxiously.

  ‘It’s our Harry. He’s passed for the grammar,’ Lizzie announced proudly.

  ‘And I don’t want to go, so Mr Jones came to persuade me. But he couldn’t.’ Harry tried to hide his disappointment, but without much success.

  ‘Harry, that’s the best news I’ve ever been given. I’m right proud to be your father.’ Harry’s face lit up. ‘Not just at the news of you gaining a place – I’m proud of the courage with which you’ve refused, Harry.’ George looked close to tears. ‘We all know you wanted to go, son – you’d be a fool not to. But you’ve accepted your disappointment like a man, a brave man, and that’s why I’m so proud of you.’ George coughed to cover his emotion.

  Harry grinned. ‘Oh, Dad, I don’t really want to go. I wouldn’t have any mates there, and I’d look a right sissy in a red and black neb cap.’

  ‘Well, let’s get our teas then.’ Lizzie smiled.

  ‘You ought to have heard our mam. She didn’t half tell Old Jonesy. And she used big words an’ all.’

  ‘And I was right proud of you, Mam.’ Harry added his thoughts to Bessie’s.

  The meal was eaten amongst much laughter, but the hearts of Lizzie, George and Harry were heavy with disappointment that the grammar school place would be given to some other less deserving child.

  ‘We should help the lad,’ Isaac said when he heard.

  ‘How can we help?’ Emily knew her husband was thinking about financial assistance; she also knew it couldn’t be done.

  ‘We could pay for his requirements. I know we aren’t rolling in money, but we aren’t paupers either.’

  ‘Oh, yes, we could. We could buy him a uniform and whatever he requires to begin at the new school. But what of next year, and the year after? And the year after that? What happens when he outgrows his shoes? What about books, games kit and other essentials?’

  Isaac frowned. Emily knew how disappointed he was, almost as disappointed as her eldest grandson. She noticed with a shock that her husband seemed suddenly to have aged. He looked smaller somehow, and grayer. She also realised that had it been any other grandchild than Harry, his disappointment wouldn’t have been quite so acute. ‘And another thing,’ she said. ‘What if the others prove to have the same ability? Are you going to fork out for them too?’

  Isaac emptied his pipe, tapping it irritatingly on the fire grate. ‘But I feel responsible, Emily.’ He sighed. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing encouraging him in his learning. Cramming as much knowledge as I could into his young head. Doesn’t tha understand how bad I feel, lass, now it’s all going to be wasted?’

  ‘Nay, Isaac, it’s you who always insisted that education is never wasted, and I’m sure you’re right. Our Harry will make something of himself, with or without the grammar school.’

  ‘But I would really like him to go, lass.’

  ‘So would I. I’d like them all to go, but it can’t be done. Oh, I know he’s your favourite – no, don’t deny it, he is. But I’m not going to allow you to make more of one than the others. Besides, George wouldn’t allow it. He’s an independent man and wouldn’t feel right, having someone else paying out for his son.’

  ‘Aye, Emily, I suppose thar right, but, oh, I do feel bad that the lad can’t be given the advantage. It’s what I’d have wanted for my own son if I’d had one.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s the trouble, isn’t it? We didn’t have one, and our Harry’s been put in place of one. But he isn’t ours, Isaac, and much as we love him he’s still Georg
e’s. So shall we let the subject drop?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose so. But I can’t help thinking we should spend some of our savings on such an important matter.’

  ‘And I can’t help thinking you should spend it on yerself. You work hard, Isaac, and aren’t over-paid, as you well know. We’re not getting any younger and nobody knows what the future might bring. We’ll need a little comfort and security in our old age. So now we’ll change the subject, if you please, and for goodness’ sake stop tapping, will you?’ It was unusual for Emily to become irritated and Isaac suddenly realised his wife was just as disappointed as he was, but more fair-minded, he supposed.

  ‘Oh, lass, I don’t know where I’d be without a wife like thee, one who’s sensible at times like these.’

  Emily blushed and concentrated on threading her needle. ‘Is that supposed to be a compliment, Isaac Stanford, sensible?’

  ‘And lovely besides, for someone with ten grand-childer.’

  Emily laughed. ‘And that’s another back-handed compliment.’

  ‘Well I never was one for fancy talk, but tha knows what I feel for thee all the same, doesn’t tha, lass?’

  Emily smiled and looked lovingly at the man on the opposite side of the hearth. ‘Yes, Isaac, I know,’ she said. But then he began tapping his pipe on the chair arm and she knew he was still disturbed. It was all the fault of that toffee-nosed headmaster Mr Jones, who couldn’t begin to comprehend the difference between the haves and the have nots, and for all his fancy education didn’t have the common sense to know when to keep his big mouth closed. She jabbed the needle aggressively through the material belonging to one of the posh folks, and for once resented the work she was doing for them.

  The subject of Harry’s education was not only a topic of discussion for his grandparents, but also for his Auntie Alice and Uncle Joe.

  ‘What does tha think, Joe? Should we offer George financial help so that young Harry can attend the grammar?’

  ‘You know I’d be willing, Alice, but I doubt if George will accept.’