by Val Wood
About the Book
When Laura Page goes to the remote village of Welwick, it is to try to discover the mystery of her mother Susannah’s early life. Now a successful businesswoman in Hull, Susannah never speaks of her childhood, when she was brought up with the terrible stigma of bastardy – of being nobody’s child.
Born into poverty, living in a tiny labourer’s cottage with her father, Susannah’s mother had caught the eye of the local landowner’s son. She was his one and only great love, but when their daughter Susannah was born he was unable to acknowledge her as his child. As the years passed and Laura in her turn became curious about her mother’s past, would she ever uncover the truth about that far off family tragedy?
An enthralling new novel by the bestselling winner of the Catherine Cookson Prize for Fiction.
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
About the Author
Also by Val Wood
Copyright
NOBODY’S CHILD
Val Wood
To Peter, Catherine, Ruth and Alex for their constant support and encouragement
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND
AUTHOR’S NOTE
My thanks are due to many people of East Yorkshire who have been generous enough to give me their time and knowledge of Holderness. They include: Larry Malkin, the members of the Hidden Holderness group, and my good friend Chris Buckle who ‘walked the fields’ of Welwick with me in order that I might find the right place to inspire me for the setting of this book.
Grateful thanks are given to Dr Martin T. Craven for his excellent book, A New and Complete History of the Borough of HEDON, which was not only informative but also made most enjoyable reading.
Nobody’s Child is a book of fiction, though I must explain that according to The Victoria History of the County of York East Riding, volume v, Burstall priory and the manor house Burstall Hall did once exist near the banks of the Humber estuary. Burstall House, which features in this novel, is a figment of my imagination and the description of it could apply to many moated houses once found in Holderness.
The Hedon Fleet or creke was once an ancient waterway and probably served the Hedon Haven, but by the nineteenth century, the period of this book, it had long disappeared or been absorbed into other canals, streams, dykes or drains. The Fleet Inn described in this book is my fictional creation.
Books for general reading:
Martin T. Craven, B.Sc., A New and Complete History of the Borough of HEDON, The Ridings Publishing Company, Driffield, 1972
The Victoria History of the County of York East Riding, Volume v, published for the University of London Institute of Historical Research by Oxford University Press, 1984
CHAPTER ONE
1880
Laura stood by the edge of the saltmarsh, gazing over the Humber estuary. She kept very still so as not to disturb the hundreds of wading birds – curlew, shelduck, redshank and oystercatcher – that were probing the mudflats for shrimps, lugworms and sea snails. It was just after midday and the sun glinted sharply on the wet surface of the estuarine silt. Was this the spot where her mother had stood debating her future? Had her grandmother come here to contemplate hers? She looked back over her shoulder. The carriage that had brought her was a good distance away, and beside it her brother, in a caped coat, top hat and warm scarf, was pacing impatiently.
Her feet were cold and wet and she glanced down, ruefully regretting that she hadn’t thought to wear more sensible boots than these highly polished ones. Her eyes wandered over the spread of the saltmarsh and were caught by the different species of plants. Some look like Michaelmas daisies, she thought; perhaps they’re sea asters. She narrowed her eyes and noticed other plants and fine-leaf grasses. Pink thrift, blue couch grasses, and sea lavender. Some of them were growing in the deep channels and runnels which were filling rapidly as the tide turned, flooding the low-lying marsh. Mother would know what they are, she mused. She was a country girl.
‘Laura!’ James’s voice broke into her meditation. The wind was blowing towards him, off the estuary, carrying the sound away, back towards the village of Welwick, yet it was loud enough to startle the feeding birds, causing them to rise up in a soaring feathered flight to freedom. ‘Come on! It’s freezing out here and the tide is turning.’
She shivered, the coldness of the wind and his words biting into her. So it was.
‘I don’t know what on earth you are doing, Laura,’ her brother grumbled as she returned. ‘What a godforsaken place this is!’ She lifted the hem of her wool coat as he helped her into the curricle before seating himself beside her, taking the reins and cracking his whip to urge the roan-coloured pair back towards the village. ‘I’m thankful you asked me to drive you and not Stubbs. He’d have thought you mad, wanting to come out here!’
Not mad but curious, she thought as they drove down the rutted track. She glanced curiously at the village homesteads they passed. Did Mama once live in one of these cottages? She would never say, only that she had been born somewhere round here, and that she knew nothing of her own mother except her name. Mary-Ellen.
‘Why do you want to know about the past anyway?’ James continued brusquely. ‘We know who we are. Mother lived here only briefly. She was widowed when Father died at sea. What more is there to know? Leave it at that!’
I can’t, she thought as they drove through the village of Patrington and onto the turnpike road towards the ancient town of Hedon. I have to know. I need to know who I am and where I came from.
Their mother, Susannah, had always been reserved and unwilling to speak of her background. She said she hadn’t known her mother or father, only Great-aunt Lol, who had brought her up, Aunt Jane, and Jane’s husband Wilfred Topham. Of him she said little.
‘And what of our papa?’ Laura had asked when she was a child. ‘I don’t remember him at all and neither does James. I wish that I did.’
He was dead, her mother had told her flatly, he had died not long after Laura was born, and she had to be satisfied with that, though she had the vague feeling that her mother was being evasive and not telling the whole truth. However, she would not be drawn further.
Her mother was still fair and comely, her hair th
ick and honey-coloured as James’s was, her eyes wide and blue; but she was quiet and self-contained, unlike James who oozed confidence and authority, and totally unlike Laura herself, who was above average height, with a mass of unruly dark hair, and invariably spoke her mind without thinking first. But that, Laura mused, as they rattled on towards Hedon where they were to spend the night, is because Mama has given us the confidence to think for ourselves. She’s worked to give us a secure background, to be beholden to no-one.
The Fleet Inn where they were staying was on the outskirts of the medieval town of Hedon. An age-old hostelry, it had been built to serve farm labourers, annual harvesters and seamen using the ancient waterways of the town, and was, in the late 1850s, on the point of collapse, until a new owner had come along and bought it, renewed the stables in the yard, put on a new frontage and rearranged the interior to give a public bar, several small rooms, and bedrooms to accommodate visitors. There were frequent walkers in the area who liked to tramp the country roads on their way to Spurn Point, the headland which stretched betwixt the Humber estuary and the sea, or follow the havenside path to the riverside village of Paull.
Their mother Susannah was the leaseholder of the inn and had been for over twenty years, sub-letting it to a succession of licensees. She was also the owner of an inn in Beverley, two shops in Hull and her own house in the village of Hessle where the three of them lived. How she had achieved this when she was a widow, her son and daughter didn’t know, for in answer to their questioning she would simply tap the side of her nose and say ‘survival instinct’. They agreed to humour her and together privately agreed that their late father must have left her a considerable amount of money which she had invested wisely, for that she was an astute and shrewd woman they had no doubt.
Up in the bedroom which was kept for her mother when she visited, Laura washed her hands and face, tidied her hair and pinned on a white lace cap. She had already changed her wet boots for a pair of indoor slippers, so when James knocked on the door to tell her he was ready to escort her downstairs for the chop supper they had ordered she did not keep him waiting. She was pleased that their mother had suggested they stayed the night here, for she was quite tired and would not have relished a further journey into Hull and then out again to Hessle on the western side of the town.
The stairs led down into the front entrance of the inn and they could hear the rumble of male voices in the public bar. ‘We’re in here, I think,’ James began, indicating a half-open door through which Laura saw a table set for supper. There was a sudden gust of wind as the front door opened and the man coming in grabbed it to stop it crashing against the wall.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said to Laura, taking off his hat. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
Laura smiled and nodded at the stranger. ‘There’s quite a breeze getting up,’ she answered.
‘Ellis? Edmund Ellis? Is it you?’ James stared at the man, who was taller by a head than he was.
‘It is!’ A small frown appeared above the man’s nose. ‘And you are?’
‘Page. James Page! Perhaps you won’t remember me? I was in the year below you at Pocklington school.’
‘Great heavens! So you were!’ Edmund Ellis extended his hand. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Oh, er – just visiting the area. My sister was keen to see Holderness. May I introduce – Laura, this is Edmund Ellis. Ellis – my sister Laura Page.’
Edmund Ellis gazed openly at Laura and gave a bow. She inclined her head and dipped her knee. Then, unconventionally, she put out her hand. ‘How do you do?’
He raised his eyebrows as he took it. ‘I’m well, thank you!’ He smiled and she saw admiration in his eyes, which did not daunt her in the least. She was used to such glances for her boldness as much as for her beauty.
‘You and James were at school together, Mr Ellis? I don’t recall James mentioning your name,’ she said.
‘Our paths didn’t cross all that much,’ Edmund Ellis replied, ‘and I left when I was sixteen to help my grandfather on the estate. Are you staying here?’
‘Yes. We’re just going in for supper,’ James said. ‘Perhaps you’d like to join us?’ He turned to Laura for her approval and her heart sank. She really didn’t want to hear endless tales of schoolboy pranks or reminiscences.
‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ Ellis said. ‘I’m on my way home, but if I might join you for a glass of ale before you eat?’ He too glanced at Laura for her consent, which she gave. I suppose a short conversation might be interesting, she considered, for he was a personable-looking man, with thick fair hair and very searching blue eyes. He was dressed in country tweeds and cord breeches with long leather boots.
He was also very confident and self-assured, she decided as she listened to them talking. Rather like James, so perhaps boarding school instils those traits into schoolboys. Perhaps it’s a veneer they cultivate to prove they are superior. He stayed chatting and drinking his ale, and in the short time he was with them they learned that both his father and his mother were dead, and that he and his grandfather ran the considerable family estate in Skeffling. He’d grinned. ‘He likes to keep an eye on me – hold the reins, you know!’
James had, at Ellis’s questioning, told him of his business interests, banking and property, and where they lived.
‘Hessle!’ Ellis had exclaimed. ‘You’re a long way from home! I’ve never been. Quite civilized out there, so I believe?’ He’d grinned and looked at Laura. ‘Come to look at the country folk, have you?’
She was saved from answering by the arrival of supper and he took his leave of them, which was just as well, she thought, as she wasn’t sure whether she would have told him why they were here: that she was in search of her roots, and that her mother had at last decided to humour her and talk a little of her own childhood in isolated Holderness.
‘As I’ve said before, I can tell you nothing about your grandparents,’ her mother had said, and her eyes were wistful. ‘When I questioned Aunt Jane, who was my mother’s cousin, or her mother, my great-aunt Lol, about whose child I was, they simply said—’ She’d swallowed hard and her eyes had filled with tears as she whispered, ‘Nobody’s. You are nobody’s child.’
CHAPTER TWO
1837
‘Mary-Ellen! Mary-Ellen! Where are you?’ Jane called, looking first in the falling-down cow shelter, and then behind the dilapidated hen house. ‘Where are you?’
A figure in the distance coming across the marshy grassland from the estuary waved to her and called back. She had a bundle under one arm and was carrying a metal pail. She looks like a gypsy with that wild black hair blowing round her face, Jane thought as she walked towards her, and she’s barefoot! She isn’t even wearing boots!
Since they were children, Jane had been in awe of her cousin. Mary-Ellen had been feisty, daring and mischievous and often even scary to quiet mouse-like Jane who was urged to do things she wouldn’t have dreamed of doing on her own, such as jumping over the wide dykes and ditches which were scattered over the Holderness fields and marshes to drain the surplus water off the land and back into the Humber.
Sometimes they would clamber onto the barges moored off the banks of the estuary. ‘We’ll fall in,’ a nervous Jane would cry. ‘I don’t want to.’ But she would be urged on and she didn’t drown, as she feared she might, not with Mary-Ellen there to look after her, and she had always felt a sense of triumph and achievement as they ran home for their supper, Jane to the village of Welwick and Mary-Ellen a mile further along the estuary bank to her isolated home at Welwick Thorpe.
‘Look.’ Mary-Ellen raised the pail. ‘Elvers and shrimps for supper.’ She held up a wet greeny-coloured bundle. ‘And samphire. Food for free! And I’ve set another trap for rabbits. There’s dozens about.’
Jane wrinkled her nose. Though she knew how to skin a rabbit, she hated to do it or see them caught in a trap. ‘I’ve come to tell you summat,’ she said, as they turned and walked back to the c
ottage where Mary-Ellen lived with her widowed father. ‘I’ve got a job! A proper job o’ work.’
Mary-Ellen put down the pail and brushed her hair away from her forehead, leaving a muddy streak. ‘Where? Who’d have a scrap like you?’
She grinned as she asked and it wasn’t meant unkindly, for Jane was small in height, and as thin as if she’d never had a decent meal in her life. In this isolated rural area of Holderness close by the river, they all ate whatever they could grow or catch: potato soup, fish stew or rabbit. Some, like Mary-Ellen, thrived on it; at seventeen she was tall and had the rounded curves and breasts of womanhood, whereas Jane was childlike in appearance.
‘I’ve been took on at Ellis’s farm at Skeffling. I’m to help with ’washing and to do ’rough.’
‘To do ’rough?’ Mary-Ellen laughed. ‘You’ll not last five minutes! Why you? You’ve allus stopped at home and helped your ma.’
‘I know.’ Jane was rueful. ‘But Maggie’s getting wed soon and will move away, so we won’t have her wages, and Ma says I should start work now that I’m thirteen. Our Sally’s old enough to help her in ’house and with ’bairns. I don’t want to go,’ she added.
‘You’ll be all right, Janey.’ Mary-Ellen put her arm round her cousin’s shoulder. ‘Who got you ’job then? Mr Bennett?’
Mr Bennett was the agent who collected rents from the smallholders, tenant farmers and cottagers on behalf of the various landowners.
‘Yes,’ Jane replied. ‘Ma had asked him during ’summer if he’d put in a word for me at some of ’big houses, cos I was honest and willing ’n’ that. And he came round ’other day and said he’d heard that Ellis’s cook was wanting somebody, and she didn’t want to ask at ’workhouse like last time. She said that ’young lasses from there didn’t know one end of a broom handle from t’other. I’m to start at Martinmas,’ she added.
‘I’ll miss you, Janey,’ Mary-Ellen said. ‘Who’ll I talk to when you’re gone?’
