Then the tide of whispers began.
‘Who is it?’
‘Can’t tell.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘Looks like it. They’ve covered him up, any rate.’
Others started to emerge after that, one more on a stretcher, others on their feet, leaning heavily on companions for support. They staggered out of the lift gates, their faces upturned to the night sky, gulping in the cold, fresh air. Agnes couldn’t make out their faces, but every line of their bodies cried out their relief at being alive.
Behind her, one of the women let out a cry. ‘I can see our Matthew!’ But the rest remained stoically silent, their attention fixed on the gates.
Gradually, news began to ripple through, as women passed along the names of the men who had come up. Still no one seemed to dare to celebrate. Only the occasional reassuring pat on the shoulder or strained smile gave away their true feelings.
In the yard, a cart drew up outside one of the outbuildings. Agnes felt a collective intake of breath among the women as a stretcher was loaded on to it.
‘One dead, then.’
‘Who is it? Has anyone said?’
‘Here’s Mr Maskell. He’ll know.’
Sam Maskell opened the gate and came out, but no one moved. They all seemed to stay as rigid as statues, their eyes cast down while the overman moved among them, as if by not catching his eye they could somehow avert the bad news they had been dreading.
Finally, he found who he was looking for, on the other side of the crowd. There were words exchanged, and a cry of anguish went up. Two women separated themselves from the crowd and followed Sam Maskell through the pit gates into the yard. One of the women was crying while the other comforted her, one arm firmly around her shoulders to hold her up.
The overman closed the gate behind him with an ominous clang, and straight away the whispers started up again.
‘Reckon it must have been Harry Kettle.’
‘No! Not Harry.’
‘He was no age, was he?’
‘Twenty-three, same as my George. They went to school together.’
‘His poor mother.’
‘What about his wife? They’ve barely been married a year. And her with a baby on the way, too.’
Some minutes later the pit gates opened again. Without a word, the crowd parted, heads lowering in respect as the cart rolled slowly out of them. Agnes lowered her head too, but out of the corner of her eye she watched the solemn procession. The two women followed the cart. The younger one, her pregnant belly evident under her coat, had regained some of her composure as she walked slowly beside her mother-in-law, their faces stiff, staring straight ahead. Only her eyes, puffy and swollen from crying, gave away the grief she felt.
They were followed by a line of men, the miners who had come up from the pit, their faces and clothes black with coal. Some were limping, clinging to their fellows for support. The stench of dirt and sweat filled Agnes’ nostrils as they passed.
As the last of the men passed by, the women began to shift and talk amongst themselves.
Agnes kept her gaze fixed on the cart as it rolled out of sight.
‘Miss?’ Agnes turned to face the woman holding out her coat to her. ‘Tha’ll be wanting this back,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’ Agnes took the coat, still staring down the lane. Should she go after the cart? she wondered. She didn’t know the family, but she might be able to offer some comfort to them …
As if the woman could read her thoughts, she said, ‘I daresay Hannah Arkwright will lay him out, if that’s what you’re wondering. She allus helps out at times like this.’
Agnes stared back at the woman, but she was already walking away, joining the tide of others who were drifting back towards the colliery cottages with their children, talking quietly amongst themselves, leaving the new nurse standing alone at the pit gates.
Chapter Five
‘One dead, three burns and a fractured femur.’ Dr Rutherford leaned back in his leather chair. ‘All in all, I think it could have been a great deal worse.’
Agnes thought of the poor pregnant girl, distraught with grief in her mother-in-law’s arms. ‘I think Harry Kettle’s widow might feel differently about that, Doctor,’ she said.
Dr Rutherford’s bright blue eyes met hers over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles. He was in his sixties, with thick snowy white hair that contrasted with his ruddy cheeks.
‘I suppose you must think me very harsh, Miss Sheridan.’ His voice was deep and rumbling, with a hint of the Highlands in it. ‘But I’m afraid death and injury are the way of life for us in Bowden. There’s barely a family in the village who hasn’t lost someone down the pit. Mining is a dangerous business.’
‘I’m beginning to realise that, sir.’ Agnes had spent the past few weeks studying mining injuries in preparation for her placement. She knew all about nystagmus and pneumoconiosis, and had looked at enough grisly photographs of inflamed joints and crushed limbs to believe that nothing could shock her.
But the sight of Harry Kettle’s body, wrapped in sacking and thrown on to the back of a cart, had moved her to her very core. As had the pathetic dignity of the procession that had followed behind, the miners with their blackened faces and pit clothes, the watching women silently giving thanks that it was not one of their men they were taking home.
Agnes hadn’t been able to sleep for most of the night, thinking about it. She had finally drifted off just before dawn, only to be woken by the pit hooter sounding at six o’clock in the morning, summoning the men to their shift.
‘Surely it won’t be safe for them to go back underground so soon?’ she had said to Jinny as she waited for her breakfast in the kitchen that morning.
‘Aye, I expect they’ll have to close that shaft for the time being. But there’s another one the men can dig,’ Jinny had replied. ‘Either that or old Haverstock will send ’em to one of his other mines, along the valley. He won’t let ’em stand idle, that’s for sure. Not unless it suits him.’
Agnes shuddered. ‘I’m surprised anyone would be willing to go back down the pit, after what happened.’
Jinny had sent Agnes a wise look as she forked rashers of bacon from the frying pan on to her plate.
‘Their families have to eat, miss. If they don’t work, they don’t get paid. My dad and my brothers were stuck down t’pit for two hours last night, but they’ll be back on their shift tonight, you can be sure of that. It’s best not to think about it, so my dad says.’
But Agnes couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it as she sat in Dr Rutherford’s pleasant, book-lined surgery. She felt almost guilty that the men had to put their lives in so much danger while she lived in comfort.
‘Poor Miss Sheridan.’ Dr Rutherford looked at her kindly. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had rather a rude introduction to Bowden one way and another, haven’t you?’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived yesterday, but unfortunately I had already promised Sir Edward some time ago that I would go fishing with him. And believe me, one doesn’t refuse a summons from the Haverstocks!’
Agnes pulled herself together enough to smile at him. ‘It’s quite all right, Doctor. I managed to settle in very well.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. And I suppose you had Mrs Bannister to help you?’
Agnes paused. ‘Yes,’ she said carefully. ‘She was most – instructive.’
‘I’m sure she was.’ Dr Rutherford gave her a knowing smile. ‘Dear Mrs B, she’s been with me since I arrived in the village twenty-odd years ago. D’you know, I remember my first day as if it were yesterday …’
Agnes shifted restlessly in her seat and glanced at the clock. Morning surgery should have started at nine o’clock, and it was now a quarter-past. Next door, the waiting room was full of poorly patients waiting to see the doctor. But Dr Rutherford seemed in no hurry to do anything, settling back comfortably behind his desk, ready to reminisce.
She cleared
her throat. ‘If you don’t mind, sir,’ she ventured, ‘I’d like to get started on my round as soon as possible.’
Dr Rutherford’s bushy brows rose. ‘You’re very keen, Miss Sheridan?’ He was smiling when he said it, but it still sounded like a criticism.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, as it happens I have prepared some names for you.’ He drew a sheet of paper from the top drawer of his desk and consulted it over the rim of his spectacles. ‘They’re mostly elderly, chronic problems – rheumatics, bronchitis, that sort of thing. I don’t suppose you’ll be able to do much for them, but I’m sure they’ll be glad of a chat.’ He handed the list over to her.
Agnes studied it. ‘Which of these are the men from last night?’ she asked.
Dr Rutherford looked perplexed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow you …’
‘The men who were injured down the pit?’ Agnes prompted. ‘The burns and the fractured femur?’
‘Oh, I see. Well, the fracture and one of the burns were taken to hospital. And as for the other two – well, I wouldn’t worry about them. I daresay their wives will look after them. That’s the way things are done here.’
‘All the same, I would like to check on them.’
‘It really isn’t necessary.’
‘I’m being paid by the Miners’ Welfare, so I should be paying attention to the miners’ health, don’t you think?’
Dr Rutherford regarded her across the desk, his smile fixed. ‘Very well,’ he said. He snatched the list from her, picked up his pen and scrawled a couple of names at the bottom. ‘Visit them if you must. But I’m telling you now, they won’t thank you for it. Bowden folk don’t care for strangers poking about in their business.’
‘So I’ve been told.’ Agnes took the piece of paper from him.
‘And you might as well add another name, since you’re so anxious to involve yourself in the wellbeing of the miners. Jack Farnley. He cut his hand nearly a week ago. I’ve been meaning to call on him for the past couple of days.’
Agnes wrote down the name. ‘I assume he’ll need the wound checked, and the dressing changed?’
‘If need be, I suppose.’ Dr Rutherford shrugged. ‘But mainly I want you to see if he’s fit to go back to work yet. He’s a good man, according to the pit manager. And with a hewer laid up in hospital after last night, and young Harry Kettle gone, I daresay Mr Shepherd would like him back as soon as he’s able.’
Agnes flinched at the bluntness of the doctor’s words. But as he said, death and injury were the way of life in the village. Perhaps after twenty years it no longer affected him.
Agnes decided to call on Jack Farnley first, since his case seemed the most urgent on her list.
The Farnleys lived on the far side of the village, in one of the many streets of colliery cottages. The wind that had gusted through the village the previous day had died down, and now a thick, yellowing veil of mist hung over Bowden, obscuring the top of the winding tower. But Agnes could still hear the engines churning as she cycled down the hill towards the colliery. As she drew closer, she could almost feel its malevolent presence, turning the air thicker, tainting it with smoke, coal dust and engine oil.
The earth road was deeply rutted with cart tracks, and mud spattered her legs as she cycled past the tall iron gates. Agnes averted her gaze, not wanting to think about the previous night, and the cart rolling slowly across the yard, bearing poor Harry Kettle’s body.
She had no trouble finding her way, even in the mist. The cottages were arranged in neat grids, each row separated from a line of privies opposite by a narrow lane. The whitewashed houses were all alike, simple single-storey dwellings with two small windows, one on either side of a green front door that opened straight out on to the lane.
Humble though they were, they were neat and well kept, and appealed to Agnes’ sense of order, unlike the dark, twisting alleys and courtyards of Quarry Hill, where it was far too easy to get lost. Even the streets in Bowden were sensibly named. There was Top Row, Middle Row, End Row and Coalpit Row, the road closest to the mine. They were crossed by several more lanes. These were in numerical order, with First Lane closest to the mine.
As in Quarry Hill, Monday was washday. A group of women were gathered around the water pump at the top of End Row, their arms full of buckets and poss tubs. They all fell silent and turned to look as Agnes rounded the corner. She gave them a smile and a wave, but they stared back in silence.
She cycled the length of End Row, bending low over the handlebars of her bicycle to dodge the washing lines that criss-crossed the narrow lane. But it was difficult to see in the mist, and sometimes she felt the wet slap of a shirt or a pair of combinations hanging limply in her path.
Finally, she found the Farnleys’ cottage and propped her bicycle against the wall. As she approached the cottage, a mangy-looking dog appeared in the open doorway, its teeth bared in a snarl that stopped her in her tracks.
‘What is it now, you daft beggar?’ A woman appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. She saw Agnes and her expression fell. ‘Oh. What can I do for thee?’
‘I’m Miss Sheridan, the new district nurse.’ Agnes kept her wary gaze fixed on the snarling dog at her side. ‘Dr Rutherford has asked me to come and see your husband.’
‘Oh, he has, has he?’ Mrs Farnley folded her arms across her chest, her expression grim. Three small, grubby-faced children gathered around her skirt. ‘I bet I know why, an’ all.’
For a moment Mrs Farnley glared at her. Then, just as Agnes had started to think she might never move, she turned away, muttering, ‘Tha’d best come in.’
‘Thank you.’ Agnes inched her way past the dog, being careful to keep her Gladstone bag between herself and its jaws. It let out a low growl, but didn’t move towards her.
Inside the cottage was small and simple, consisting of one room and what seemed to be a lean-to scullery off to one side, with another small room off to the other. A wooden ladder in the corner led up to the roof space. The air was damp and hot, a fug of steam billowing from the copper tank, which squatted on a low brick structure in the corner. Washing day was in full swing, with a galvanised tub set out on the stone-flagged floor, and wooden clothes horses arranged around the fire.
Jack Farnley was sitting in a chair by the fireplace, barricaded behind rows of drying washing, his heavily bandaged hand lying uselessly in his lap. Two more children sat on the floor at his feet, playing with a pack of cards. He looked up at Agnes, then at his wife.
‘It’s t’new nurse,’ Mrs Farnley muttered in reply to his unspoken question. ‘T’doctor sent her to have a look at you.’ A meaningful look passed between them, which Agnes didn’t quite understand.
‘Hello, Mr Farnley. How are you feeling today?’ Agnes satisfied herself that the table was clean, and set down her bag.
‘Not too bad, Nurse.’ Mr Farnley gazed at his hand. The dog plodded over and lay down beside him.
His wife shook her head. ‘Not too bad!’ she tutted. ‘It were hanging off not a few days since.’
‘I’ll give my hands a wash and we’ll have a look, shall we?’ Agnes started to take her soap and towel out of the pocket at the front of her bag, but Mrs Farnley interrupted her.
‘Afore tha’ starts, I want to know how much it will cost us,’ she said.
‘Be quiet, woman!’ Mr Farnley said, tight-lipped.
‘Nay, I’ll not. I know you lot, tha niver does nowt for free. That doctor doesn’t leave without a shilling in his pocket.’ She grimaced.
‘It’s quite all right, Mrs Farnley. Any treatment I offer is covered by your contributions to the Miners’ Welfare Fund.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Mrs Farnley’s chin lifted. ‘That’s all right, then.’
‘Nay, I don’t want charity,’ Mr Farnley put in quickly.
‘It in’t charity, is it? You heard what she said, it comes out of your contributions. You’ve been putting in long enough, it’s only right you should start taking out.’ Mrs Farnle
y looked back at the soap and towel in Agnes’ hands. ‘Tha’ll be wanting a bowl of hot water to go wi’ that, I suppose?’
‘Yes, please. And another bowl of clean water to clean the wound, if you don’t mind?’
Once Mrs Farnley had fetched the bowls and filled them from the copper, she went back to her washing, rubbing at the collar of a shirt with a lump of strong-smelling green soap. But Agnes could feel the other woman watching her suspiciously from across the room as she set about carefully removing Mr Farnley’s dressing.
The wound was so savagely deep and ugly, it caught her unawares. Agnes tried to brace herself, but she was too late.
‘Not pretty, is it?’ Jack Farnley said grimly.
‘No, it isn’t.’ But it wasn’t just the sight of the jagged, gaping flesh that made the bile rise in the back of her throat. There was a strange, sickly odour coming from the wound, like nothing she had ever smelled before.
‘Hannah Arkwright gave us some of her special ointment to put on it,’ Mrs Farnley answered her unspoken question. ‘She’s been coming round to change his bandages. She won’t be too happy about you interfering in her treatment, I’m sure,’ she added, looking nervous.
Agnes glanced over her shoulder. ‘Who is Hannah Arkwright?’
‘She heals people. She’s got the gift.’ Mrs Farnley nodded towards her husband. ‘She made that ointment special for us. Got all sorts of rare herbs in it. She did tell me their names, but I can’t recall them all now.’
It smells like cow dung, Agnes thought. She held her breath and grabbed a swab to clean the wound as quickly as she could. Mr Farnley noted her reaction with amusement.
‘The pong takes a bit of getting used to, doesn’t it, Nurse?’
‘I’ll say, Mr Farnley,’ Agnes replied through clenched teeth.
‘As long as it does some good,’ Mrs Farnley said. ‘Hannah reckons it’s knitting together nicely.’
‘What do you think, Nurse?’ Mr Farnley watched her carefully.
Agnes examined the wound. ‘It certainly seems to be healing well,’ she said. ‘You see where this part has turned pink? That’s called granulation, and it’s a sign that healthy tissue is growing.’
District Nurse on Call Page 4
