The Stanford Lasses

by Glenice Crossland

‘Aye, I’ve considered that possibility, but does tha think we should offer?’ Alice bit her lip. ‘Or does tha think he’d be offended?’

  ‘Make the offer by all means. They can always say no.’

  Alice sighed with relief. Spending Grandmother Stanford’s legacy on herself always galled her somehow, mainly because she was reminded of the misery she had suffered in order to receive it, but using it for the benefit of her sisters always gave her a pleasurable feeling. Unfortunately, Lizzie and George were the most independent couple she had ever come across and she doubted they would accept, even for something as important as Harry’s education. She settled down on the sofa with her Bible. It amused Joe that she should still read a few verses every night. ‘I shouldn’t think you need open the pages, lass. You must know it off by heart from cover to cover by now.’

  ‘Aye, some of it. It just gives me a warm feeling, reading a little before I go to bed, that’s all. Tha should try it sometimes.’

  ‘Nay, lass, I do whatever good I can in the world. I don’t reckon I need Bible-bashing as well.’

  Alice smiled and closed the book. ‘I reckon that’s right, Joe. Thar a good man, and I know there’s many who go to chapel who could learn a bit about kindness from thee. All the same I feel better in myself if I read a few words before I go to bed. It might not make me any better, but it pleasures me a little.’

  ‘Aye, well, I’ll take my pleasure in bed, if you please. Shall we be going up, lass?’

  ‘Ready when you are.’ Alice turned out the lamp. She considered spending some of her money on having electricity installed. She would wait and see what Lizzie said first about young Harry, although she was already certain what the answer would be. She checked the door Joe had already locked. As always, she glanced into her son’s bedroom. It was a pity Joseph didn’t have the same inclination for learning as his cousin, but all Joseph’s brain seemed to focus on was anything mechanical. Still, he was rapidly becoming known as the lad who could make summat outa nowt, according to Joe. Alice looked lovingly at the mound beneath the eiderdown and felt a sadness that Joseph still remained an only child. Even so, Alice knew she was a fortunate woman and counted her blessings as she joined her husband. Besides, there was some pleasuring to be done and Alice was more than eager for it to begin. Who knew, tonight might be the night she would conceive the second child she so longed for.

  George declined the offer, but with grateful thanks. He pointed out that this would be a valuable lesson on life for Harry. It would make him realise that if money was short there were some things that one just had to do without. Joe admired his brother-in-law’s principles and told him so; he also promised that when the time came he would do his utmost to find Harry a situation in the works where he could better himself. George appreciated the offer and said he was sure his son would do well in whatever situation he was fortunate enough to find. So there was nothing else for it but for Harry to accept he would be attending the senior school with all his pals, except of course the chosen few who would be starting at grammar school, most of whom were less talented than Harry but had wealthier parents. Harry knew however that he wasn’t the only boy to be denied a place for financial reasons, and, as his father said, nothing could change the fact that he had passed. It was small consolation, but Harry accepted it with good heart and soon settled down happily in the senior section, consuming as much knowledge as the teachers could offer him, and a whole lot more from Grandfather Stanford.

  Olive however continued to miss lessons whenever possible and became more and more knowledgeable about Grandma Burlington’s herbal remedies. She already knew what she would do when she left school. Grandma Burlington had advised her to become an umbrella girl like her mam, but only because her mam needed the money Olive could earn. The rest of the time she would be a herbalist, and when Grandma Burlington had taught her all she could, Olive would sell her cures and potions on the market. There was money to be made, Old Mother told her. Oh yes, she would be an umbrella girl, but not for long, she was certain about that. Old Mother knew there was money to be made for it had been necessary for her to make it. After her father had shown Olive Burlington the door she had been destitute. With only a bag of clothing she had scoured the countryside around Bakewell for a place to earn a living and birth her child. She had walked for weeks, sleeping in hedgerows and any shelter available, covering villages such as Carver and Grindleford. She had found work at a house in Hathersage for a few weeks, until her child began to show and then she was on the road again. Olive had been a beauty. In fact, when she looked at young Olive Crossman it caused a pain in her heart to see herself over again.

  Old Mother had covered the miles to Bamford and the bleak hills of the Pennines and had finally come to rest in Cottenly, where her child had been born, a girl as dark and pretty as her mother but cold and lifeless, a stillborn babe, helped into the world by a feeble old woman here in this very cottage, only to be laid to rest the next morning in the churchyard on the hill. The frail old woman had been glad of Olive Burlington’s company. Almost crippled by rheumatism, she had cried out in pain in the mornings, until her old bones had become accustomed to the movement of each new day. Olive had massaged her limbs with extract of smartweed, dressed her, administered beef tea and kept her as comfortable as possible in the circumstances.

  In return, the old woman had signed over to Olive the deeds of the cottage and the small piece of land surrounding it. Because neighbours had seen a complete stranger come into the old woman’s life and end up owning all her possessions Olive was said to have bewitched her. Yet it hadn’t prevented those same neighbours from seeking Olive’s help when any disease reared its ugly head, and though she soon became known as Old Witch Buttercup it was accepted that she was a white, kind, healing witch for all that. So here she had stayed, handing out remedies, administering advice, delivering babies and laying out the dead.

  At first she had taken a basket of potions to Cottenly market, some for cooking, some for beautifying the posh folk and some, more importantly, for healing. Gradually her customers had begun calling at the cottage and it had become unnecessary for her to stand in the market any more. With the passage of time the title of Old Witch had been changed to Old Mother, but she had remained a lonely woman until the day she had delivered Olive Crossman into the world. Her second sight had told her that here was a child to replace the one she had lost, and she had once again been proved right. Olive Crossman devoured knowledge as fast as Old Mother could deliver it, and now, when Old Mother knew her end was drawing nigh, she decided it was time to put her affairs in order. Though it wouldn’t do for the young girl to know it, there wasn’t much belonging to Old Mother that wouldn’t belong to Olive when she had moved on to the next world. But before that day came there was more work to do, more teaching, more notes to be written in Olive’s notebook, and something told Old Mother there wasn’t much time to lose, not much time at all. She wasn’t afraid to meet her maker; she knew she would be reunited with the child she had lost, and its father who had gone before her. She was afraid, however, of going before Olive had learned all her secrets. So instead of going to school Olive visited Grandma Burlington, in the cottage which would one day be hers.

  Whether the sponge was responsible or not Lizzie had conceived no more children after Ernest Edward, and now with all her children at school her lot was far easier than it had been. Joe Jackson had kept his word and asked around on Harry’s behalf when the time had come for the lad to leave school, and a position had been found for him, not in the works, but in the town hall where there would be every opportunity for promotion in the years to come. Old Mother’s premonition that Harry would be a clever one had proved correct and Isaac had dreams of his grandson’s one day going into politics, a subject which interested Harry every bit as much as his grandfather. The only obstacle standing in Harry’s way was the threat of war, which Isaac could see hanging like a shadow over Europe. Emily would wave any such morbid talk aside, preferring to
ignore what Isaac said was as plain as the nose on his face.

  ‘Even if there is a war, I can’t see it affecting Cottenly,’ Emily said, and Isaac knew that his wife would be happier kept in ignorance than worrying about something before it happened. But Isaac knew it would start soon if the events in Austria and Germany were anything to go by.

  Though Harry’s earnings weren’t colossal, they eased Lizzie’s worries a little and provided a few small luxuries for the children. One of these was the Saturday trip to the pictures in the new picture palace which had been built at the far end of town, financed by the local business folk, and was proving a popular night out for adults and children alike. Olive was already besotted with Charles Farrell and Janet Gaynor, but George insisted that Charlie Chaplin was still the best, even without the talking. Despite the arguments for and against their favourite actors, the Saturday trip proved to be the highlight of the week. On one occasion George offered to stay at home and let Ruth and the children go instead, but despite his offering to foot the bill Ruth daren’t accept, dreading her husband’s displeasure on learning about the outing.

  ‘It just isn’t normal, her being afraid of her husband. I don’t know how she stands it,’ Lizzie said to George.

  ‘She’s no option, lass, that’s why she stands it, but he’ll get his just deserts one of these days, you wait and see.’

  ‘Aye, but when?’

  Ruth couldn’t help wondering what would happen if there should be a war, which her father said was likely. She wondered if Walter would go. ‘Oh, God, forgive me for hoping,’ she prayed. She couldn’t stand it much longer: the drinking; the beatings, mostly with the leather belt; and most of all, the sex. In fact he had been all for it lately, and some of the things he demanded of her were unnatural, repulsive acts, which hurt her for days after. Up to now the sponge seemed to have worked, although she thought it more likely that it was the way she usually managed to put him off in the middle of the month, which according to Old Mother was the most dangerous time. How long she could keep him at bay on those days she was afraid to think. Now the twins were at school she found she could relax a little and look forward to the time when they were a little older and she could find some kind of work which would bring in a bit of extra money. She was sick of the poverty, of not knowing where the next meal was coming from, of having no coal for the fire. That was the worst thing, for if there was no fire there was no hot water and no laundry could be done. She had lost one or two of the posh folk’s washing orders only last week, when Walter had been on a drunken binge for three days and she had not been able to pay the coal man. If she could avoid any more babies, there was a chance that in a few years she might escape from this living hell, and if there was a war, and Walter had to go, it might even happen sooner.

  Ruth knew it was wicked even to think such thoughts, for if Walter had to go the good men would have to go too: George for instance, and Sammy. Oh, no, she mustn’t even contemplate such a thing. Best to look to the future, for if Old Mother was right and he wouldn’t see the twins grow up she wouldn’t have many more years to wait. Unfortunately, even one year with a husband like hers was a year too many.

  Ruth’s dream came to an end the following month when Walter forced her to submit against her will to what amounted to no less than rape. He had not got up for work on that day, had risen from his bed at about eleven o’clock, just as Ruth was standing on the kitchen chair hanging the whites on a line at the back of the table. He walked behind her and slid his hand up beneath his wife’s skirt. ‘Oh, God,’ Ruth silently prayed, ‘please don’t let him do anything, not today.’ She suddenly remembered with horror that she was not protected by her sponge.

  Walter’s hand had reached its goal, the long, jagged nails he used to keep so neat cutting into the soft flesh.

  ‘I have to get on, Walter,’ she coaxed, ‘or the water in the tub’ll be cold.’

  ‘Bugger the bloody water.’ He lifted Ruth down and pulled her to him, the whiskers on his unshaven face scraping her chin as he kissed her forcefully. She could feel the bulge in his trousers. Perhaps if she appeared to be eager, she could satisfy him without going all the way. She undid his buttons and took his erect penis in her hand. ‘Come here, Walter,’ she whispered. ‘I feel like touching you, stroking you, like this.’

  Walter’s eyes gleamed at Ruth’s enthusiasm, but as she rubbed him harder, and faster, he suddenly realised her intention. He turned her round, bent her over the table and threw her skirt over her head, pulling violently at her undergarments until her buttocks were bare. The shape of their rounded smoothness and her white thighs inflamed him. He thrust his hard, throbbing manhood between Ruth’s legs until it found its way into the warm softness. She kept herself taut, aiming to prevent its entry, but he held her down, almost suffocating beneath her skirts, pressing her on to the hard table top, until her breasts were bruising under the pressure. On and on he went, until ecstasy took over and he could no longer prevent the shuddering climax. Ruth knew, even then, that she had conceived another child. If she had ever believed in prayer, her faith was destroyed at that moment. A loving God would never have allowed an innocent child to be conceived out of violation such as this.

  Walter buttoned up his trousers and went out of the house, to brag to his cronies at the Rag about what he had just done to his wife, until even his fellow drinkers were repulsed by his boasting. Ruth carried on with the washing, bent over the rubbing board, her tears falling like raindrops into the soap suds, but not until she had scrubbed herself red raw inside and out in an attempt to remove every seed of Walter Wray’s from her body.

  Exactly nine months later Margaret Wray was born. A perfect little girl, delivered by Old Mother with no fuss whatever, whilst Walter Wray drank away his wages at the Rag.

  Despite the bitter winter weather Ruth was on her hands and knees scrubbing the doorstep, even though little Margaret was only two weeks old. ‘I don’t know. If I did this doorstep a dozen times a day it wouldn’t look any better,’ she muttered, but it was Saturday and she liked everything done for the weekend. Suddenly, she heard Mrs Armitage calling her.

  ‘Ruth, Ruth lass, your Frankie’s fallen in the river again.’

  ‘Oh no! Is he all right?’

  ‘Don’t worry, love. The rag and bone man fished him out. Lucky he was passing when he was.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Ruth wiped her hands on her pinafore and set off across the Place.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s bringing him home. Our Florrie has just run on and telled me.’

  Ruth relaxed a little.

  ‘You ought to put a fence up at the bottom of the yard, otherwise he’s going to drown himself one of these days. You know how deep it is just here.’

  ‘But we can’t fence the whole river off. Besides, he hasn’t fallen in just here this time, has he?’

  ‘No, but he has before. And when the baby starts running about there’ll be her to watch as well.’

  ‘I know, I know. How do you think I went on when the twins were toddling? But you just try telling him that. It takes me all my time to get a stone of flour out of him, let alone a bloody fence.’

  Mrs Armitage shook her head sadly. ‘Eeh, love, you have changed. I never heard either you or your sisters use a single swear word until you married him, not that you haven’t got cause. Still, you should have known what he was like when you got hitched to him.’

  ‘Oh! If anybody else tells me what I already know I shall—’

  Fortunately Winnie Armitage was spared hearing what Ruth would do by the sound of a horse’s hooves on the cobbles. ‘Here they come now, the ragman with your Frankie.’

  ‘He wants his backside tanning,’ Ruth threatened, but was so relieved to see her son all in one piece that she took him in her arms and hugged him instead.

  ‘Oh, love, you look like a drowned rat. You’re going to end up with pneumonia. How many times have I told you to keep away from the river? I ought to tan yer backside. Come and get
yer clothes off. I’ll have to wrap you in a towel – I’ve washed your other pair of trousers.’ Suiting the action to the word, she rubbed vigorously at her son. ‘Oh, I don’t know how to thank you, Mr Dolan. I’ll make you a pot of tea. I’m sorry I’ve no dry clothes to lend you.’

  ‘I’m reight enough, love; don’t worry about me. I’ve plenty of clothes on’t cart, if I could just fetch some in and change into them.’

  ‘Yes, of course you can.’ Ruth hoped Walter wouldn’t come home yet and find out what had happened.

  ‘Eeh, it was lucky I happened to be passing. He was just about to go under for the second time when I reached him. Not that I’m a strong swimmer, mind, and I can’t say I wasn’t scared when I realised how deep the watter was. I should put a barrier fence up at its deepest and teach the kids how to swim an’ all if I were their dad.’

  Ruth sighed deeply. ‘Yes, I expect you would, but you don’t happen to be their dad.’

  Jack Dolan looked uncomfortable. ‘Aye, well, I’ll just fetch some dry things in then.’ He went out to his cart and Ruth found a frayed towel.

  ‘Is there somewhere I can get changed?’ Jack Dolan had returned with an armful of clothing. Ruth handed him the towel and opened the door at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Through there. Nobody’ll disturb you. Then you must have a drink of tea to warm you up. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything stronger.’

  ‘A pot of tea’ll do fine. I’m not much of a drinker anyway, especially when I’m working. I like to look respectable when I go to the fancy houses where the well-off folk live.’ He laughed. ‘I wouldn’t like to offend me best source of supply by looking like a drunkard.’ He went to change his wet things, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Oh, Frankie.’ Ruth sighed. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. I’d better get you upstairs and in bed before your dad gets home. Let’s hope nobody sees him and mentions what’s happened or you’ll be in for another hiding when he comes in.’ She glanced at the clock anxiously.