Salem Street

by Anna Jacobs

  Neither of them saw Tom pause at the foot of the stairs, then tiptoe quietly back up, stunned by the sight of his sister in Dr Lewis’s arms. He’d have sworn that she hated the thought of a man touching her and he wasn’t at all sure that he wanted her to get mixed up with anyone. She had enough on her plate with William and the business. Besides, the doctor was married, so nothing good could come of that association. Tom decided to keep his eyes open and step in if necessary. He moved round his bedroom noisily enough to make sure that they heard him coming and then he clumped down the stairs again.

  “I thought I heard something, Annie, love. How’s our William?”

  Annie turned a tear-streaked, but joyful face towards him, so that what she said was unnecessary. “Oh, Tom, Dr Lewis thinks the crisis has passed. William’s fever’s broken. He’s breathing more easily already. He has a chance!” Her voice broke on the words.

  Tom moved over and put his arm round her. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long while,” he said huskily. “I knew our William’d make it.” He hugged her and looked so challengingly at the doctor that Jeremy wondered whether he had seen or guessed something. “We’re tough stock, us Gibsons, doctor.”

  Jeremy’s face clouded.

  “What’s up?” Tom asked quickly, as sharp as ever.

  Jeremy hesitated.

  “What is it?” Annie asked. “You’d better tell us, or we’ll be worrying. Is it – someone else at Number Three?”

  “I’m afraid so. Your little sister Peggy. She died this evening just before I came round here. I could do nothing. She wasn’t a strong child. And … and now your stepmother has the influenza. Badly, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, no! Poor little Peggy! I’ll have to go round there and see what I can do.”

  “No!” Jeremy and Tom spoke in unison.

  “But there’s no one else! We can’t just leave them. They need help.”

  ‘You can’t help them and nurse William, Annie,” said Jeremy. “The influenza seems to pass quickly from one person to another. William isn’t out of danger yet. If he caught anything else, he’d surely die. And you’re run down yourself. What if you caught it? William has only you.” He turned to Tom. “She fainted a little while ago. Don’t let her go near the rest of the family. She’s in no state to do anything.”

  “I won’t,” said Tom firmly. “Annie, you know you can’t go round there. Just look at you! You’re as white as a winding sheet an’ you look ready to drop. Besides, I’m not havin’ you riskin’ your life for Emily. She’s not worth it. If I have to tie you down, you’ll stay away from Number Three!”

  “But Tom, what will they do?” she protested. “We can’t leave them without help. You know what Dad’s like.”

  “We won’t. We’ll pay someone else to go in and help. I’ll see to it first thing in the morning. Trust me!”

  She looked at him very seriously, then she nodded.

  Tom gave her a little lop-sided smile. “You can trust me now, you know, love.” Then his tone became brisk. “Right, then, doctor. You’re lookin’ in need of a rest yourself. If our William doesn’t need you any more, I’d suggest you get yourself home. We’re more than grateful for your help tonight, but we don’t want you killin’ yourself. How’s your daughter?”

  “Oh, I’d forgotten about Marianne!” exclaimed Annie guiltily. “How is she, Jeremy?”

  Tom noticed her use of the doctor’s first name at once and his lips tightened into a thin line. Oh, no, Dr Lewis, he thought to himself. She’s had enough to put up with. You’re not going to spoil her life again. You’re married an’ you’ve got nothin’ to offer her.

  “Marianne’s much better, thank you,” Jeremy said, in his usual quiet voice. “It is the influenza, but it’s not a bad attack. Ellie’s been a tower of strength. She’s like her father. Sam’s good with sick people. He seems to calm them down. Ellie has the same touch.”

  Tom shepherded Jeremy Lewis out, shut the door firmly and came back to stand next to William’s bed. “Aye, he does look a bit more like. You can see the difference. Funny, isn’t it, how quickly they turn the corner sometimes?”

  She nodded, almost too weary to speak, and he put his arm round her and walked her over to the stairs. “You get yourself up to bed, our Annie, and waken Kathy. She can come and sit with William. You look like a bloody ghost! I don’t want you collapsing on me!”

  “Dad …” she begged, in a whisper of a voice.

  “Stop worriting! As soon as it’s light, I’ll go over and sort something out for that feckless lot. I said I would, didn’t I? They don’t deserve it, but I’ll see they’re all right. So leave it to me. Go on! Up to bed with you now!” He pushed her gently up the stairs. “We’ll look after him properly, you know. We love him, too.

  She smiled back at him tiredly. “I know you will. And Tom!”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m glad you stayed with us.”

  Then he knew that he was really forgiven.

  While the epidemics were raging in Bilsden, taking a heavy toll among the Rows and not sparing the better-off families in their comfortable houses, Tom Gibson came to full maturity. He arranged for the burial of Edward and his little half-sister, Peggy, and supported his father through the ordeal, refusing to let Annie attend or be involved in any way. He also found a woman to nurse Emily and look after the other children, so that his father could continue in employment, for things had not changed since Lucy’s death and Hallam’s mill stopped for no one. Grief was still considered no excuse for absence from work, once the funeral was over.

  The mill did not even close for the death of Frederick Hallam’s wife from the influenza which was weeding out the weaker inhabitants of the town, rich and poor alike. And Frederick was back at his desk the day after the funeral. He had not loved Christine, but he was angry that he had been so powerless to help her. He’d have another word with Jeremy Lewis about the town’s sanitation and water supplies. Epidemics were bad for business. Why, he’d had nearly a third of his workers laid low by one thing or another this time. Something would have to be done.

  It never occurred to Tom that he might catch anything himself and he didn’t. He’d had his share of illnesses as a child, including a mild dose of the fever, but he had not had so much as a sniffle since he grew up. Since he’d left the mill, he’d been bursting with vitality. He knew now what he wanted in life and was on the way to getting it. What more could a man ask of fate or fortune, or whatever it was that decided what happened to you?

  When Emily died, unvisited by her daughter May, for whom she’d been calling in vain, she was not lamented by Tom. However, he again arranged a funeral and supported his father through it.

  “Nay, lad,” said John, as they walked away from the chapel graveyard, “that’s two wives and four children I’ve buried. Life’s a cruel hard business.”

  “Aye, well, you’ve seven children still living and two wives is enough for any man,” said Tom unsympathetically. “You’ve had more than your share.”

  “What a way to talk, with my Em’ly only just cold!” protested John, shocked.

  “It needs saying. You found comfort after our mam died, but you’ve enough on your plate now, lookin’ after what you’ve got. Don’t you go takin’ on any more wives!”

  John stalked ahead, muttering angrily, but he slowed down again as they turned into Boston Street. “It’s all very well you talkin’ like that, our Tom, but how am I goin’ to look after ’em, that’s what I want to know? I can’t work in the mill and look after the house. I’m no good in a house anyway. What does a man know about cookin’ and washin’?”

  “Neither was Emily any good in the house, so you won’t be missin’ much. Rebecca’s turned nine. Surely she can do some of it. Our Annie managed the house when she was only ten, and managed it well, too.”

  John shrugged. “Rebecca’s not Annie. Annie allus were as sharp as a needle. And Em’ly – well, she didn’t train her lasses like Lucy trained our A
nnie. Your mam were a rare housewife, as well as the best wife a man could have. Em’ly did her best, but you know how it was. She was a weak reed.”

  “Aye. We know. But in the meantime, there’s still four children left to you, so we’ll have to think of somethin’, won’t we? But no more marryin’!”

  The epidemics slowly died down and people began to pick up the pieces of their lives. Then, just as the weather was beginning to warm up a bit and April was blowing gently in, Sally came down with a cold. She laughed at Annie’s worries and didn’t bother much about herself. She boasted that it’d take more than a cold to keep her in her bed, now that things were going so well for her.

  A few days later there was a knock on the door of Number Eight and Annie went to see who was there. “Mr Blunt!” she exclaimed in surprise, seeing Sally’s Harry on the doorstep. “Do come in!”

  He stepped into the front room, but wouldn’t sit down. “I – er – I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Ashworth, but its Sally. She’s ill.”

  Annie froze. “Ill?”

  “Yes. She seems to have – I think it’s the influenza. I don’t know what to do.”

  Annie reached for her shawl. “I’ll come over and see if I can do anything to help. Kathy?”

  “Yes, Annie?” Kathy peered out of the back room. “Oh, hello, Mr Blunt.”

  “Kathy, Sally’s ill. Mr Blunt is afraid that she has the influenza. I must go to her. Can you see to William?”

  “Yes, of course. Annie – take care!”

  But Annie was already out of the front door, hurrying along to Number Six. There her worst fears were realised as soon as she saw Sally and heard her laboured breathing.

  “Sorry to bother you, Annie, love,” croaked Sally.

  “Sally, why ever didn’t you ask for help sooner? You must have been bad for days. I should have come round myself and checked that you were all right! Why didn’t Alice tell me?”

  “I wouldn’t let her. Didn’t want to – to bother you. You had enough on your plate – with your William.” Sally’s eyes closed and she began to shiver.

  Annie tucked the blankets round her and turned to the little man waiting patiently in the doorway. “You’d better go for the doctor, Mr Blunt. Dr Lewis of Park House. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes.” His face was quivering, as if he were close to tears. “You – you’ll stay with her till I get back?”

  “Of course I will!”

  When he’d gone, Sally opened her eyes. “I didn’t think I’d get it. I don’t usually ail. I thought – just a cold, I thought. Eh, I do feel bad. Annie … ?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t leave me. I’m afraid.”

  “I won’t.” Annie tried to speak cheerfully. “I’m an experienced nurse. I know exactly what to do.”

  She spent the next three days looking after Sally. Harry stayed on in Bilsden and Alice spelled Annie in the nursing, but somehow Sally was always better when Annie was looking after her, and it was Annie she called for when she grew delirious.

  Both Tom and Jeremy tried to prevent Annie from wearing herself out, but in vain. Now that she knew that William was out of danger, she didn’t even seem to hear their carefully-reasoned arguments as to why she should return to Number Eight for a few hours of uninterrupted rest, or why she should go out for a walk in the fresh air. She would occasionally go as far as the doorway of her own house and talk cheerfully to William from there for a few minutes, but the rest of the time she stayed with Sally.

  Towards the end of the week, it became obvious to everyone but Annie that Sally was weakening fast, in spite of all the care she was getting.

  “Sally’s heart’s not strong,” Jeremy told Annie, trying to prepare her for the worst.

  Annie gazed at him uncomprehendingly, for she was dizzy with fatigue. Then Sally called out and Annie turned back to her. That night, when Annie was alone with Sally, she noticed that there was a change in her friend’s breathing. She bent over the bed and Sally’s eyes flickered open.

  “Annie – love.”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’m – so tired.”

  “Of course you are! You’ve been very ill. But we’ll nurse you back to health.”

  Sally’s head moved from side to side in a feeble gesture of negation. “No, love. Not this time.”

  Tears filled Annie’s eyes. “Don’t talk like that, Sally! I won’t let you!”

  Sally’s hand groped for hers and Annie grasped it, her eyes blurred with tears.

  The sick woman was silent for a moment, gathering her strength, then she started to speak again. “You’ve been – like a real daughter – to me.”

  “Don’t tire yourself, Sally!” Annie begged.

  “Doesn’t – matter. Not now. Pity, though.”

  “What’s a pity?”

  “Never got – made respectable – after all.”

  Annie was sobbing now. “You’re as respectable as anyone I know, Sally. And I love you like a mother.”

  “Annie, I …”

  Harry appeared at the door. “I heard a noise. Is there – is something … ?” He saw Annie’s face and rushed over to the bed, but Sally had gone.

  They had to take Annie out and lead her home. She seemed stunned and was quite unable to talk or answer their questions. Jeremy shook his head and recommended a week or two’s rest in bed and, ideally, a change of scene, a thing usually impossible for his poorer patients.

  “Has she – is she – she’s not ill too, is she?” Tom asked, with fear in his heart.

  “She isn’t suffering from any illness, if that’s what you mean, not as far as we can tell, anyway, but she’s totally exhausted. Isn’t there somewhere she could go to get away and give herself a chance to recover? Have you no relatives or acquaintances in the country? She needs a change of scene. That seems to help most of all in this type of case.”

  Tom stood frowning for a moment, then his face brightened. “I bet Bridie would have her, if you’re really sure that’s what she needs.”

  “I am.”

  “I’ll go an’ see Bridie today, then.”

  Bridie not only said yes, but she sent Michael back with Tom to bring Annie and her things in the farm cart. She also insisted that William was to be sent to the farm too, so that Annie would not be worrying about him. It’d do the lad good to run about in the fresh air and she’d soon feed him up on her good eggs and butter. The hens were just starting to lay well, after the winter, and she had a cow just come into milk. The weather was still cold, but there was a promise of spring in the air. William would take no harm, for Bridie would personally see that he wrapped up warmly, and so Tom was to tell Annie.

  So it was done, in spite of Annie’s cross protests that she didn’t want to impose on anyone. What finally persuaded her to agree was Tom’s cunning reasoning that it’d be the best thing for William.

  Annie asked Michael to stop the cart at the top of the hill and sat looking down into the smoky little valley. “I’d forgotten how ugly Bilsden was,” she said dreamily. “You forget about that when you live in the middle of it all.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “Thank you, Michael. I’d like to move on now.”

  27

  April to May 1845

  For the first day or two at Knowle Farm, Annie just sat around in Bridie’s best parlour, staring out of the window at the moors which were alternately swept by showers or lit up by the sun. Bridie kept the children quiet and left her guest to herself. Annie was grieving for Sally and was totally worn out by her long spell of nursing. She would come round in her own time.

  It was rare that Annie had ever had the chance to be waited on hand and foot like this. The last time she could remember being idle was just before William’s birth, and once before that, when she had been ill as a child. But she knew she needed the rest. She had never in all her life felt as deep down exhausted as she did now. For the first few days she just drifted along, listening with mild pleasure to William’s excited voic
e as he explored the mysteries of farm life and smiling vaguely at him when he came to show her some new treasure. Bridie’s lilting voice in the kitchen formed a soothing background to the lazy days.

  In the bracing moorland air, William’s cheeks grew rosy again and he was soon eating as heartily as the other children. It was he who was instrumental in pushing Annie into the next stage of her recovery. He started to drag her out of doors to look at this or that, or simply to listen to the faint calls of birds over the rolling grey-green stretches of moorland above the farm. And now, Bridie made no attempt to keep him away from his mother. She allowed him to drag Annie out to feed the chickens and collect the eggs, to see the new ducklings and to inspect the first shoots of barley and oats.

  One morning, Annie was pulled from her bed at dawn by an almost incoherent William, to admire the litter of eight healthy puppies born during the night. He hung over the basket in the shed as if they were the most precious thing on earth. To a boy bred and cloistered in the Rows, the countryside was a treasure-house of delights.

  Annie began to wonder why she had not taken more time off to show her son what the world was like outside the smuts and grime of Bilsden. She remembered Brighton and the sea, and vowed that within the year she’d take William to see the sea, too. There was towns on the Fylde coast which were attracting more visitors every year, Blackpool was one, or St Anne’s-on-Sea. They could easily afford to spend a few days there. And they would.

  After the first week at the farm, Annie began to think about her future, though she still did not feel ready to plunge back into her busy life. There was no longer any need for William to drag her out of doors; of her own accord she began to go for walks across the moors. Sometimes she went with William, more often she went on her own, revelling in the silence and the peace. Even the weather co-operated, for there were very few rainy days and, though it still had not much warmth in it, the sun shone on Annie’s peregrinations. She tried several times to help Bridie around the farm, but was shooed away and told to go and enjoy her holiday.