by Anna Jacobs
“Get outside, will ye!” Bridie would scold. “I can’t do with ye under me feet all day.”
Annie tried to put her gratitude into words, but was cut short.
Bridie patted her hand. “I know, love. I know exactly how ye feel. An’ I’m glad to be able to help ye. I’m that grateful to our Danny for giving us this chance, an’ I’m happy to share me good fortune with me friends.”
“Where is Danny now?” For once, the thought of him did not fill Annie with apprehension. The real world was still too distant to her.
“He’s workin’ somewhere called the Cotswold Hills an’ he says he’s doin’ very well for himself, for the whole country’s gone wild on building them railways. He writes us letters an’ Father Shaughnessy comes and tells us what’s in them and writes back for us. Our Danny always asks to be remembered to you.” She looked sideways at Annie, trying to see her reaction.
Annie kept her face calm. “That’s nice.” Danny was so far away that the thought of him had no power to do more than cause a ripple in the surface of her peaceful happiness.
“Ah, he’s been a good son to us, that boy. Did you ever see my Michael look so well? And will ye look at the roses in the children’s cheeks! Sure, we both hated livin’ in the town, for we were brought up in the country, but when they took our fields away from us, what could we do? Ye have to feed your family, don’t ye? Ye have to go where the work is. Me sisters’ve gone to America. ’Tis further away than England, they say. But ’tis a good job they did, because people have been havin’ a hard time of it in Ireland lately.” She crossed herself.
“What’s happened?” Annie felt out of touch with everything.
“The potato harvest has failed and they’re starvin’. Folk live on potatoes over there, love. I can’t imagine how they’ll go on without the crop. We’ve been collectin’ a bit of money at church to send over. The good father’s organised it. Me cousins still live there, an’ their families, too.” She shook her head. “But what am I doin’ talkin’ to ye about such things. It’s cheerin’ up ye need, not makin’ miserable!”
Pauline came to visit Annie at the farm, but couldn’t stay long, for she was nursing Saul back to health. He, too, had had the influenza. She brought several bottles of port wine with her and ordered Annie to drink a large glass of it every night. She brushed aside Annie’s apologies for letting her down about the dressmaking. The silk was still there, wasn’t it? It could be made up later. And anyway, she wouldn’t be able to attend the wedding, because Saul was not well enough yet to leave. Pauline was also looking tired and not her usual self. Every family seemed to have been hit by some form of illness, Annie thought, well, everyone except Bridie’s noisy brood.
Jeremy Lewis, when he came over to check on his patients, was astonished at the improvement in them both. “You must be a witch, Mrs O’Connor,” he told a delighted Bridie. “I never saw so fast a recovery.”
“Ah, well, ye can’t beat a breath of fresh air and a bit of good food, can you, now? Will you try one of my potato scones, then, doctor?”
The next time Jeremy had to drive out that way, he brought Ellie and Marianne with him and left them to visit Annie at Knowle Farm while he went on to visit another patient at an outlying farm. Marianne, who was at first on her dignity as an almost-grown-up young lady, was not proof against William’s enthusiasm and after a while condescended to allow him and Ben, Bridie’s youngest son, to show her round the farm. She fell in love with the puppies and went home with the promise of one for herself, once they were old enough to leave their mother. Now that Annabelle had left, her father had promised her a dog of her own, a thing her mother would never have allowed.
Marianne had also lately started to take an interest in her father’s work among the poor of the town and would question him at meal-times about what he had been doing and how she could help. Her mother would never have permitted such unseemly talk. Looking back, Marianne sometimes thought that her mother had not permitted her to do anything interesting. Neither she nor her father had put it into words, but life was a lot pleasanter without her mother. The servants would have heartily endorsed this, even Mabel, who had been very subdued since Mrs Lewis’s departure.
Ellie sat and enjoyed a comfortable chat with Annie. She brought her up to date on all the news from Park House. The new junior partner was a very nice young gentleman and a pleasure to have in the house. Always courteous, always ready to lend a hand. With him there, the doctor didn’t have to work as hard, and about time, too. And the doctor had had Mrs Lewis’s old room redecorated and furnished for his daughter. A proper young lady’s room it was now. A cousin of the doctor’s was to come and live with them, to teach Miss Marianne how a young lady should behave. But the doctor had told Ellie that it would make no difference to her position as Miss Marianne’s personal maid cum family housekeeper. Yes, that’s what he’d called her, she giggled. Well, she would personally see that it didn’t make any difference! Just let anyone even try to come between her and Marianne!
“Don’t you ever wish you had children of your own?” asked Annie idly. “You’d have made a marvellous mother.”
“Children I’d have liked, but not a husband,” declared Ellie without hesitation. “The only sort of man who’d marry me would be too poor to support me in comfort and too rough for me. I’ve got used to gentlemen’s ways and I’ve been spoiled over the past few years, with Mrs Lewis away so often. I’d hate to have to struggle like my mother did. Look at how it’s soured her! We had some bad times before we moved into Salem Street, you know. I haven’t forgotten them. I never intend to go hungry again as long as I live. I save most of my wages, and Dr Lewis has been very generous with presents. I expect to have enough saved to keep myself in comfort when I’m too old to work. No, Annie, love, I’m far better off as I am.”
“How are they – your parents, I mean?”
“My father’s well. I see him often. I don’t see my mother.”
Annie waited, then, when Ellie didn’t say anything, she added in a casual voice, “And Matt?”
“He’s as busy as ever. You’d think it was his mill, not Hallam’s, the work he puts in.”
“He was always ambitious.”
“Too ambitious!” sniffed Ellie. “An’ he’s that prim nowadays, you wouldn’t believe it. Always talking about the Lord and the Bible – when he’s not talking about the cotton market or some stupid lecture he’s been to in Manchester. I can’t be bothered with him.”
After that visit, Annie began to make detailed plans for her return to Bilsden. She scoured Bridie’s house for scraps of paper, for although the children could read and write after a fashion, Michael and Bridie were completely illiterate and neither of them had much patience with what Bridie called scornfully, ‘the readin’ and the writin’. The scraps of paper were soon covered in calculations which made Bridie worry that Annie was addling her brains, but nothing would stop her.
At the end of the third week Annie declared that it was time she returned home again.
William sulked about their coming departure and Bridie protested in vain. “Could ye not stay for another little week, now, Annie, love?”
“No, Bridie, I couldn’t. I can’t thank you enough for this holiday. It’s done me and William a world of good. I’d swear he’s grown an inch and he’s bursting out of his clothes with all the good food you’ve been stuffing into us. You really are a marvellous cook!”
Bridie preened herself. “Well, I do have a light hand with the pastry, even if I do say so myself. An’ our chickens are as tender as butter. But Annie, love …”
“No buts, Bridie! I must go back. I’m quite recovered now, you know, and there’s a lot to be sorted out – my dad, for one thing. And I want to move out of Salem Street as soon as I can.” For she had told Bridie and Michael a little about her plans.
“Annie, me dear, ye can’t be takin’ everyone else’s burdens on your shoulders. Ye’ve a life of your own to lead an’ it’s your dad�
��s responsibility to look after his family, not yours.”
Annie smiled wryly. “I won’t neglect myself, I promise you. But I can’t just leave them to struggle along. You know what Dad’s like.”
“Aye, I do, too. His breeches rule his head, that one. It’s to be hoped that he’s gettin’ past all that now, at his age!”
“Bridie, what a thing to say!”
Bridie blushed a little, but stuck to her guns. “Well, ’tis true! Me an’ your mam used to joke about it sometimes, an’ look at the number of children he got out of that poor Emily.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about me, Bridie. I know exactly what I’m going to do. It’s only a question of how best to do it.” And how to gain Tom’s agreement, she added silently. That’ll be the big difficulty.
* * *
Salem Street seemed even more mean and cramped than it had done before. Even William noticed and said, in a tone of great surprise, “How little and dirty it all looks!”
Annie, following Michael and William, who were carrying her luggage, looked around her with the appraising eyes of a stranger. The air smelled sooty, the people seemed pallid and shrunken after Michael and his strapping sons. These weren’t her people any more. Even the houses were more dilapidated than she remembered, the window-frames warped, a few panes broken, the doors scratched and scuffed, and the bricks stained a dark reddish-black by the smoke from the big chimney that towered over the street. No, she had no intention of leaving her father to struggle on alone in Number Three. He had helped her in her hour of greatest need, when Mrs Lewis had dismissed her, and she would help him now in return.
She looked at the other houses as they went past, but the people she thought about were those who had been there in her youth. The tenants at Number One had changed several times. The Dykeses were gone from Number Two, the O’Connors from Number Five and Sally from Number Six. The Peters were long gone from Number Seven, though she still thought of it as their house. Only Widow Clegg was left in Number Four. And herself in Number Eight. But now that poor Charlie had died, she would be leaving Number Eight and the street. She had spent most of her twenty-five years there; that was more than enough!
She noted automatically that everything in her own house was clean and shining – trust Kathy for that! – and she was glad of the fire crackling cheerfully in the grate. Kathy rushed to hug her and William, and to exclaim at how well they both looked. Alice followed with a quieter, but no less warm welcome. They hadn’t expected her so early and Tom was still out on his rounds, but would be back sooner than usual in honour of the occasion. Sammy nuzzled at her skirts, sniffing delicately at the strange smells and thumping her with his tail.
For a time it seemed that the front room would burst with so many people in it, all trying to talk at once, and William rolling about on the floor with Sammy, telling him about the new puppy who would be coming to live with them. Eventually, however, Michael took his leave, William went out to play and to boast to anyone who would listen about his wonderful holiday, and Alice tactfully took Kathy into the back room, so that Annie could have a rest.
When he came home, Tom found his sister deep in calculations, the bits of paper from the farm piled up at one side of the table and several new pages spread out in front of her, with long columns of figures marching down them.
“It didn’t take you long to start workin’ again, did it? You’ll undo all the good of the holiday!” He pretended to be angry to hide how glad he was to see her.
“Uncle Tom! Uncle Tom!” A small body catapulted into him and he laughed and swung William up in the air, setting the boy shrieking for joy.
“I think you’ve grown, my lad.” Tom pretended to stagger under his nephew’s weight.
“I have. I’ve grown an inch. Michael measured me on their doorpost. I’ll soon be as tall as Ben – well, nearly. But he is older than me. An’ guess what! Michael says he’ll give me one of Lady’s pups when they’re old enough to leave their mother. She’s a very intelligent dog, so we think the pups’ll be clever, too. There’s one of them that has one black ear and one white, an’ Michael says I can have it. An’ Mother says when we move, we can go an’ fetch it. It’ll be company for Sammy.”
Tom looked sharply across at Annie. “Hold on a minute, young fellow! Let other people get a word in edgewise, will you? What’s this about moving, Annie?”
“I think it’s more than time we moved, don’t you? Salem Street has had its day.”
“Maybe.” At least she had said ‘we’. She wasn’t leaving him behind.
“We’ll talk it over later, when this noisy scamp has gone to bed.”
So Tom had to contain himself until later, when Kathy and Alice went and sat in the back room, and left him and Annie to talk.
He stretched his legs out in front of the fire. “You look well, Annie. It’s good to have you back again.”
“It’s good to be back, though not so nice to be in the Rows after the farm. It’s lovely up there. Why didn’t you come to see us?”
“I was too bloody busy. And then there was Dad. He’s fretting, doesn’t seem his old self.”
“Poor Dad! He’s had more than his share of troubles.”
“I can’t get over how well you look,” he repeated. “As well as you’ve ever looked.”
“I am well. I haven’t felt so good in years, and …” She broke off and looked at him.
“And … ?” he prompted.
“And I’m ready now to make a move from here. Don’t you think it’s time we left? I’ve been making plans during the past week or so,” she gestured to the pile of papers, “and I’ve been trying to calculate what we’ll need and how much money I have. I think I’ve put everything down. Could you just have a look at …”
“In a minute. There’s something I have to tell you first.”
She was instantly alert. “Trouble?”
“No! Why should there be trouble?” He scowled at her. “There won’t be that sort of trouble again, so you can just stop bringing it up!”
“No. I should know that by now. Sorry.”
He smiled, a proud little smile and for a moment, she could see her mother in him. “I told you I could look after things, Annie. It’s just – well, there’s something we didn’t like to tell you before. Dr Lewis thought it might upset you too much at the time.”
“Stop trying to prepare me and tell me what it is.”
“All right. Sally left everything she owned to you. There was a will, drawn up by a proper lawyer. She said you’d been like a daughter to her and you were to use the money as you saw fit. You’ve to go and see her lawyer, and he’ll explain all the details to you.”
She willed herself not to cry; she had done with tears. “But – what about Harry? Shouldn’t he have the money? After all, they were going to get married.”
“He says he doesn’t need it and he wants to do as she would have wished. He’s taken her death hard, poor bugger. He gave her a fancy funeral and ordered a headstone made, then he went back to Oldham. He looked older, sort of shrivelled. I felt right sorry for him. We had a bit of a chat before he left. He said to thank you for all you did for her, and not just when she was ill.”
“I loved her,” Annie said simply. “I didn’t do it to get her money. It should be his by right.”
“I told you – he doesn’t want it, or need it. He’s well set up already. He took the locket she used to wear and that was all. I said you wouldn’t mind him taking that. He paid the rent till the end of the month. He said he’d take it as a favour if you’d clear the house out for him. He couldn’t face goin’ through her things. And you’re to keep anything you want. Kathy says she’ll do that for you, if you like.”
Annie took a deep, quivering breath. “I feel funny about it. As if I’m taking something that doesn’t belong to me.”
He put his arm round her. “You did your best for her, love.” Being Tom, he could not resist adding, “Er–have you any idea how much she’s
left you?”
“A fair idea. She had two or three cottages and a bit of money in the bank. She used to get me to help her with her accounts sometimes.”
He whistled in surprise. “That much?”
“She was always very careful with her money.” Annie concentrated on the business aspects or she’d have been crying again. “I’ll have to see that lawyer, though, to find out exactly what she had.”
“Er – you realise what this means, don’t you?” Tom started poking the fire, trying to speak casually.
“What?”
“It means that you don’t have to work any more if you don’t want to.”
That explained why he was acting so strangely. “I’d not know what to do with myself if I became a lady of leisure,” she mocked. “Goodness, I don’t even like to think about it.”
“I wondered – there’s your doctor friend.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw him kissin’ you the night our William turned the corner. You weren’t struggling to get away.”
She shrugged and leaned back in her chair so that her face was in the shadow. “There’s no future for me with Jeremy Lewis. Did you think I’d agree to become his mistress? You should know me better! He’s married and we both have our children to think of. Besides, I’m not in love with him. If I was, I’d perhaps think about it. But I’m not. I’m fond of Jeremy. We’re friends. But apart from that night, when he was comforting me, there’s been nothing like that between us and there won’t be! Not on my part, anyway, and I suspect that it was just loneliness, with him.” She smiled at her brother. “Is that what’s been worrying you, Tom, love?”
“Yes. I wasn’t sure whether I’d be included in your future plans. I’d not blame you for tryin’ for a bit of happiness for yourself.” It cost him a lot to say that.
She looked at him almost blindly. “Happiness? I don’t think I was born for that sort of happiness! First Matt, then …”She drew a deep breath. “Let’s not talk about it any more. That day, when I came home from Manchester and found William so ill, that very day I’d decided to move out of this street and set up as a ladies’ dressmaker. Pauline’s been at me for a while to do it. I assume that you still want to carry on with the junk business?”
