District Nurse on Call

by Donna Douglas

  They laughed. At the far end of the counter, Carrie could see Iris quietly fuming.

  ‘Have you made up your mind yet?’ she snapped at Eliza.

  ‘That’s no way to speak to a customer, is it?’ Eliza replied loftily. ‘I’ll have a look at those ones, up there.’ She pointed to one of the topmost shelves.

  ‘But you’ve already seen them!’

  ‘Then I’ll have another look.’

  As Iris stomped off to fetch a ladder, Eliza winked at Carrie.

  ‘Old Fensom’s looking again,’ Nancy hissed. ‘Best choose summat quick, before he comes over.’

  ‘I’ll have that one.’ Carrie pointed to a skein of ribbon without even looking at it. ‘I’ll take two yards, please.’

  As she watched Nancy deftly measuring the ribbon against the metal rule set into the counter, she said, ‘Have you set a date?’

  ‘We’re seeing the minister tomorrow, but we were thinking early June.’

  ‘You’ll have to start on your dress soon, then?’

  ‘I already have. I’ve found a nice pattern, but I haven’t begun to look for any material yet.’

  ‘I could help you, if you like? We could go into Leeds, next time you have a day off?’

  ‘That would be nice.’ Nancy kept her head down as she snipped off the length of ribbon. ‘But I’m not sure when that might be.’

  ‘Oh, it don’t matter. Just let me know. And happen we could go and have tea at the Queen’s Hotel afterwards, to celebrate?’

  ‘Steady on!’ Nancy smiled weakly. ‘I’ve got a bottom drawer to save for, remember? I in’t made of money.’

  ‘It’ll be my treat,’ Carrie said, looking sideways at Iris. For all her posh voice and put-on manners, she would never be able to treat anyone to tea at the Queen’s Hotel.

  ‘That’s very nice of you, I’m sure,’ Nancy mumbled.

  As they left the Co-op with her mother, Eliza whispered, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I bought the most expensive buttons I could find, just to see that cat Iris’ face.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ Carrie said absently, her thoughts elsewhere.

  Eliza looked sideways at her. ‘Are you still fretting about this wedding business?’

  ‘I don’t know why Nancy didn’t tell me,’ Carrie said. ‘After all, I am supposed to be her best friend.’

  ‘I don’t think Nancy sees it like that.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, she hardly rushed to tell you her news, did she?’

  ‘I wish you’d told me, instead of letting me stand there looking a fool!’

  ‘I didn’t have the chance, did I? And anyway, I didn’t think you’d be interested. You’ve hardly seen her since you got married.’

  ‘That in’t true!’

  ‘When was the last time she visited you?’

  ‘I—’ Carrie started to reply, then shut up. Nancy hadn’t been to her house once since she had married James.

  ‘You see?’ Eliza said. ‘If you ask me, she in’t as good a friend as you think. Not since you went up in the world.’

  ‘I haven’t gone up in the world! I mean, I’m still the same person I was,’ Carrie protested.

  ‘Your sister’s right,’ Kathleen Wardle put in. ‘Whether you like it or not, you and Nancy Morris mix in different circles now, lass.’

  ‘That’s not true!’

  Eliza laughed. ‘Don’t look so fed up about it. I wouldn’t mind going up in the world, if it meant I could look down my nose at the likes of Iris Maskell all the time.’

  ‘Now, Eliza, you mustn’t speak like that,’ her mother warned. ‘Pride comes before a fall, as they say.’

  ‘Oh, Mother!’ Eliza mocked. ‘I’ll tell Mr Fensom not to bow and scrape to you next time you go into the Co-op, shall I? Then we’ll see who’s proud and who isn’t!’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Carrie had hoped to see her father once she had helped her mother home with the shopping, but the cottage was empty.

  ‘He’ll be up on his allotment, I daresay,’ Kathleen Wardle said. ‘He’d be up there all day, if he could. I reckon he’d even sleep in that shed if I’d let him!’

  ‘The fresh air does him good,’ Carrie reminded her.

  ‘Fresh air in Bowden?’ her mother scoffed. ‘That’ll be the day. Which reminds me, best leave the bairn here, if you’re thinking of going up to the allotments to see him. We don’t want the little lad getting coal dust on his lungs, do we?’

  Carrie knew her mother really wanted an excuse to have her grandchild to herself. But as she left the cottage, she knew Kathleen Wardle’s judgement had been right. The April sun had disappeared behind a pall of filthy fog. Carrie pulled her coat collar up to stop herself breathing in the acrid air, thick with smoke and coal dust. Less than two years after leaving Coalpit Row, it was hard to believe that this had all once seemed normal to her, the dirt and dust, the cramped lanes, and the low thrumming of the winding tower.

  This was where she grew up, in the shadow of the coal heaps. She had measured her days by the drone of the pit hooter marking the miners’ shifts, and the sound of the trains pulling in and out of the goods yard. Her father always said they had coal dust in their veins, and he was right.

  But she felt like a stranger now as she made her way down the narrow row, past the middens and the water pump, and headed up the lane towards the patchwork of allotments.

  James had wanted to come with her to visit her family, but as usual she had made an excuse. Even though he was always quietly charming to her mother and sisters, and very respectful to her father, seeing him in her family’s cottage always made her feel uneasy. He didn’t seem to fit in, with his smart suit and well-polished shoes. And that made Carrie feel as if she didn’t belong there any more, either.

  But it was more than that. When she was back in Coalpit Row, Carrie could pretend for a while that she was a pitman’s daughter again. She didn’t feel she had to behave like the manager’s wife, watching what she said and what she did all the time.

  Her father was a distant, solitary figure on his allotment, body bent over a spade. Carrie watched him for a while, digging over the soil. Eric Wardle looked like an old man, moving gingerly, badly stooped. Her younger sisters could barely remember a time when he hadn’t been ill. But Carrie had been eight years old when he went off to war, and she could clearly recall the fit, strong man in uniform who had swept her up on to his shoulders and carried her, laughing, along the platform as he boarded the train that took him off to France.

  And she remembered the broken man who had returned. Eric Wardle’s spirit was as strong as ever, but the spinal tuberculosis he had contracted in the trenches had weakened him physically. In the eight years since the war ended, he had been bedridden in hospital several times, sometimes for months on end, and each time Carrie feared it would be the last they would ever see of him.

  But Eric Wardle went on fighting, digging his allotment and turning up at the pit gates for his shifts, his body encased in a painful brace, to provide for his family as best he could. He was one of the deputies at the pit, responsible for the miners’ safety. He tested for gas, measured the seams and supervised the detonations when the rippers were blasting the rock. Carrie was fiercely proud of him, but like her mother she would have preferred him not to be working down the pit, breathing in the hot, dusty, poisonous air.

  Once she had married James, Carrie had hoped her father might be content to give up work. But not Eric Wardle.

  ‘Nay, lass, I’m not one to be sitting idle,’ he had said. ‘What would I do wi’ mysen all day? Besides, I’d miss the other lads.’

  As if he knew he was being watched, he suddenly straightened up and turned to face her. Eric Wardle was never a man to show his feelings, but Carrie caught the brief flare of delight in his eyes before he concealed it in the briefest of nods.

  ‘Now then, lass,’ he grunted.

  ‘Hello, Father.’ Carrie leaned on the f
ence and looked at the bare earth. The rich, sour smell of manure assailed her nostrils. ‘Been muck spreading, I see?’

  ‘Aye. I’ve got to get the compost dug in or we’ll get nowt grown otherwise.’

  ‘Tha’ll be putting the onions in soon, I s’pose?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not just yet, lass. Ground’s too wet.’ He squinted up at the sky and she noticed how pale and thin he looked, his skin almost translucent in the greyish light. ‘We’re in for another lot of rain soon, I reckon.’

  ‘Can I lend a hand digging it over?’

  Her father looked her up and down, and for a moment Carrie thought he was going to refuse her help. But then he nodded towards a second spade propped up against the tumbledown shed.

  ‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘But mind those nice clothes of yours. I’ll not hear the last of it from your mother if tha spoils ’em.’

  They worked side by side in companionable silence, just as they always had when Carrie was younger. While she was happy to help her mother in the house with her younger sisters, if she had the chance she would always prefer to be out with her father, digging and planting and weeding the soil. It seemed like a little miracle to her, watching the plants grow.

  And it was a chance for her to escape, too. Inside the house, there was always a noisy hubbub, with Eliza, Hattie and Gertie bickering amongst themselves and her mother scolding them all. Much as she loved them, Carrie liked to have time and space to think.

  She knew her father felt the same. Eric Wardle was a thoughtful, intelligent man who had educated himself despite his humble beginnings. He was keen to pass on his hard-won knowledge, and Carrie had learned a lot from him during the time they spent together. He discussed politics and history and the events of the world with her, almost as if she were a son.

  But they didn’t speak much now as they worked together, turning over the soil and digging in the manure. Carrie sensed it was taking all her father’s strength to keep working.

  ‘We can have a rest, if you like?’ she ventured, as she watched him fighting for breath.

  He shook his head. ‘I need to get all this sorted out.’ He winked at her. ‘What’s the matter, lass? All that fine living made tha soft, has it?’

  Carrie gritted her teeth. ‘I’ll show thee who’s soft!’

  She heard her father chuckling as she attacked the soil with her spade. She knew he was only teasing, but his words rankled with her. They made her think of what Eliza and her mother had said, about her going up in the world and mixing in different circles.

  She was so busy digging, she didn’t notice for a moment that her father had stopped and was leaning on his spade, watching her from the other side of the allotment.

  She straightened up, pushing her hair out of her eyes. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘You tell me, lass.’ He nodded towards the ground she had been digging. ‘Anyone would think tha’s digging the Haverstocks another pit shaft the way tha’s going about it.’ He smiled. ‘There’s summat on tha mind, I can tell. So tha’d best spit it out afore tha ends up in Australia!’

  ‘It’s nothing—’ Carrie started to say, but then she saw her father’s face and knew she couldn’t lie to him. ‘Do you think I’ve changed since I got married, Father?’

  Eric Wardle blinked at her. ‘What’s brought this on?’

  ‘It’s daft, really,’ she sighed, putting down her spade. ‘Just summat that happened today …’

  She told him about the shopping trip, and finding out that Nancy Morris was engaged, and how upset she was that she had been the last to know about it. Her father listened carefully, his gaze fixed on hers. Carrie didn’t know any other man who would have listened to their daughter the way he did.

  ‘Eliza said I didn’t belong with Nancy’s sort any more, and I should consider mysen lucky about it,’ she finished miserably.

  ‘Happen she’s right,’ Eric Wardle agreed.

  Carrie’s gaze flew to his in dismay. That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She wanted her father to tell her that everything would be all right, that she hadn’t changed and she didn’t have to, either.

  ‘So I have changed? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m not saying that, lass. I’m just saying that happen things are different now.’

  ‘But I don’t want things to be different!’

  ‘We all want a lot of things we can’t have. But that’s not the way the world works, is it? Besides, as Eliza said, there’s plenty as would be glad of what tha’s got in life.’

  ‘I know,’ Carrie sighed miserably. ‘I’m being ungrateful.’

  Eric Wardle sighed. ‘It in’t easy for thee, lass. Tha’s caught between two worlds. Tha’s the pit manager’s wife but in your heart tha’ll always be a pitman’s daughter. But tha can’t be both. Tha’s got to let go of one or tha’ll niver enjoy the other.’

  Panic pierced her. ‘But I don’t want to let go!’

  Suddenly all she wanted was to be back at the cottage, helping her mother with the washing and the baking, working at the Co-op with Nancy and gossiping about the lads they liked.

  Her father shook his head. ‘As I said before, that in’t the way the world works, lass.’

  Carrie was silent for a moment, taking in his words. As usual, Eric Wardle spoke a lot of sense.

  But at the same time, her mind shrank from the idea. She wasn’t ready to embrace the life of a pit manager’s wife, not if it meant turning her back on her old friends and family.

  ‘If anyone expects me to start hobnobbing with the Haverstocks, then they’ve got another think coming,’ she declared fiercely. ‘I tried that before, and it didn’t work out well for any of us. Not that I suppose Miss Eleanor would ever invite me again, after the way I spoke to her father the last time—’ She stopped talking, seeing her father’s face. ‘What’s funny?’ she demanded.

  ‘Oh, Carrie!’ Eric Wardle took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. ‘And to think tha was worried about changing. I don’t reckon tha could change if tha wanted to, lass. Not while tha’s got that quick tongue in your head!’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Agnes was in a good mood as she left the Tollers’ cottage on Middle Row.

  She visited them every morning to give their eldest son Laurie his insulin injection. For the first month or so, Susan Toller had barely tolerated her presence like most of the other women. Then, two weeks ago, her middle child had developed a nasty rash, which Agnes had cured with gentian violet.

  This morning, Susan Toller had smiled and thanked her. It wasn’t much, in the great scheme of things. But Agnes couldn’t stop smiling as she left the cottage. She was making progress, at last.

  Added to which, it was a glorious late April morning. It was barely nine o’clock, but already the sun was wonderfully warm in the cloudless blue sky. Even Bowden looked quite pretty in the clear spring light.

  Agnes was so pleased with herself and life in general, she didn’t notice the skinny boy who ran out into her path until he was almost under the front wheel of her bicycle.

  She jammed on the brakes, putting her feet down to stop herself hurtling over the handlebars.

  ‘Please, miss.’ He looked up at her, his face pleading. He was no more than twelve years old, his hands thrust into the pockets of his ill-fitting trousers. An oversized cap sat on the back of his fair curly head.

  ‘It’s our Ellen. The baby’s on its way. They need you to come.’

  ‘Me?’ Agnes couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. ‘But surely it’s Hannah Arkwright you should be sending for?’

  Stephen Kettle snatched his cap off his head and wrung it between his hands. ‘Miss Arkwright’s off delivering another baby so Ma sent me to fetch you instead.’

  All kinds of smart replies flew into Agnes’ mind. But then she looked down at his anxious face. ‘I’ll need to go back to the surgery to fetch my bag,’ she said. ‘You go on ahead and tell your mother I’ll be there
shortly.’

  The boy sprinted off, and Agnes cycled quickly back to Dr Rutherford’s house to fetch the metal maternity case she kept packed in her room, in case of emergencies. Back in Steeple Street, Bess Bradshaw had been adamant that they must be prepared at all times, but after nearly six weeks, Agnes had given up expecting that she would ever need to use it.

  Her case strapped firmly to the back of her bicycle, she pedalled furiously down to the rows where Ellen Kettle lived.

  The back door was thrown open, and some of the neighbouring women had gathered to see what was going on. They watched her as she dumped her bicycle against the back wall and unstrapped her bag, then parted to let her enter the cottage.

  The boy who had summoned Agnes was sitting at the kitchen table, while a young girl busied herself at the range, heating up water. They both looked up with relief as Agnes entered.

  ‘Ma says to go through.’ The girl at the range nodded towards the other room.

  ‘Thank you. Is that water for me?’ Agnes nodded towards the range. ‘Could you bring in two bowls, please? And some newspaper, towels and clean sheets, if you have them.’

  Having issued her orders, Agnes went into the other room, where Ellen Kettle lay still on the high wooden bed, her pale face slick with sweat.

  Her mother-in-law was with her, perched on the side of the bed, clutching her hand. She shot to her feet when Agnes walked in.

  ‘Oh, Nurse, thank the Lord!’ She left Ellen’s side and went over to speak to Agnes, her voice low. ‘Her waters broke in the early hours, and she started with her labour pains, but there in’t been nowt since. Not to speak of anyway.’ She cast a worried glance back at the girl in the bed. ‘I don’t like it,’ she murmured. ‘She should be well on the way by now, don’t you think?’

  ‘Sometimes these things take time, Mrs Kettle.’ Agnes set down her bag and took off her coat. She smiled bracingly at Ellen, who let out a low moan and turned her face away to the wall.

  The girl brought the bowls of water and newspaper, and Agnes washed her hands, set out her instruments and changed into a clean apron, then set about examining Ellen. Mrs Kettle was right; the girl’s contractions did seem to be very weak.