The hospital visits upsetting Grace, Mims was not permitted to go at all, in consequence becoming very anxious and confused. Even those who were allowed access found it hard having to leave Mother behind. In the hope of avoiding it altogether, Beata asked if she might go and stay with Aunty Kit until Mother was well again, but Father said that Kit had only just got her son back after all those years at war and they needed time together.
The fact that all these little upsets were kept from Grace had no effect on her mood and she missed her children dreadfully, asking for photographs to be brought in so that she might have some tiny consolation.
It was Augusta who brought these when she and Clem visited one Sunday, laying them on the bed for her mother to examine.
Having spat much crimson this morning, Grace was sucking a lump of ice and trying to look cheerful as she sifted through the photographs of her family, making affectionate comments on each. But coming to the last she made a weak little moan of dismay. ‘Aw, we haven’t got one of Mims.’
Her mother’s distress prompted Augusta to offer quickly, ‘Would you like me to take her to the studio?’
Grace performed a grateful nod. ‘But don’t bother your father for money. There’s some in a tin on the mantel.’
So Augusta dressed Mims in her best white lace, tied a ribbon in her hair and went along to a photographic studio, the result being produced on her next visit to the hospital.
There was also an apology for her own appearance in the photo. ‘Sorry, Mims refused to stand still so I had to grip her hand. I had me factory overalls on and all.’ She wore the boiler suit now and stared down at her trousered leg, twiddling one of her dark auburn plaits. ‘I hope I haven’t spoilt it.’
‘Course not!’ Grace reached a weak hand to caress her tenderly. ‘It’s a lovely one of both of you.’ And after smiling upon the boiler-suited figure in the photograph and her little lacy companion, she held it to her scrawny breast, allowing it to lie there whilst chatting to her eldest daughter.
‘How are you managing?’
‘Nobody’s complained at my cooking.’ Augusta hoped her smile was convincing.
But Grace read it well. Her lip trembled. ‘I do miss you all. I should be there. I’m feeling a lot better now…’
‘You must stay here till you’re fully recovered this time.’ Augusta was alarmed that something she had said might induce her mother’s premature homecoming. Father had warned them not to say anything that might upset her.
But Grace had made her decision days ago. Looking deeply into Augusta’s crystal-clear eyes, she declared, ‘I can’t stand this, Gussie. I’m coming home.’
* * *
‘Grace, I despair of you, I really do!’ said Probyn when he came home from the office to find her there surrounded by happy children.
Charlotte, too, had much to say after trailing through wind and rain to the hospital and being redirected to her friend’s home.
Neither could deny, though, that Grace was much happier in familiar surroundings; radiantly so. Charlotte could not take her eyes off those bright eyes and pink cheeks as she watched Grace move about her kitchen that Saturday morning, displaying happiness in even the smallest pleasures.
‘Isn’t it wonderful to be able to bake a cake with all the proper stuff,’ declared Grace, ‘after four years of chickpeas and chitterlings.’
Charlotte heartily agreed, but really wanted to know more about Grace’s health and tried to broach the subject.
As ever, though, Grace made light of it and went to call the children in from the street, inviting them in to speak to Aunt Charlotte, knowing that no mention of her illness would be made in their presence.
But Charlotte was equally crafty. Dipping in her purse, she gave a silver coin to the oldest one present, Madeleine. ‘Here, I’m sure you’d rather be at the pictures than talking to your stuffy old aunt. Take yourselves off.’
There was an excited putting on of coats and hats and a mass exodus, allowing Charlotte the leeway she sought. ‘Now, madam, less of your tricks, tell me how you really are!’
Outside, there was argument as to which picture house the children would attend, the one that Joe prescribed being deemed unsuitable for an infant like Mims. He solved the problem by asking his youngest sister, ‘Didn’t you hear Mother calling you?’
Mims had not, but went dutifully inside, anyway. When she came out again the street was empty.
Faced with Mims’ bawling, Charlotte gave up the interrogation of Grace with a sigh and watched her friend scoop the distraught youngster into her arms.
‘The mean little devils, they’re always running off and leaving her!’ Hugging and kissing, Grace took Mims on her knee, first to wipe her tears, then to cut a slice of newly baked gingerbread with which to comfort her, thereafter rocking the child on her lap and singing, ‘Wha-at care I for your goose-feather bed? What care I for your thingy-oh! Da-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah, to follow the raggle-taggle gypsies oh!’
Head against her mother’s bosom, her own sparrow breast shuddering with emotion, Mims nibbled on the gingerbread, taking comfort in this and in her mother’s lovely voice.
* * *
It was good that such a little child did not know what comfort the memory of that gingerbread was to provide in years ahead. For the older ones, watching their mother grow ever weaker, the days that followed were most harrowing.
Confined to her bed now, Grace was tended by one after the other, discovering a most compassionate tender side to her eldest son as he helped Probyn and Augusta to nurse her, without being told fetching clean nightgowns to replace ones drenched with sweat, lifting her frail body into another position to deter bedsores.
For the most part it was Augusta who bore the lion’s share, for, starting work early she was always home by mid-afternoon, going straight to tend her mother, before cooking the evening meal.
But for Clem there was no shirking either and the moment he came home he would go to his mother with a warmed soft towel, wiping it gently around her face and along her stick-like arms that glistened with perspiration.
Grace beheld him lovingly tonight. ‘The woman who gets you will be very lucky.’
He laughed softly but did not reply, sitting on the edge of her bed and tweaking the edges of her woollen bonnet around her cheeks. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Mother?’
‘You can tell Gussie I need to use the chamber.’
‘She’s up to her armpits in cooking, can’t I help?’
‘Well, if you don’t mind…’
‘Course I don’t.’ Showing no embarrassment, Clem pulled a chamber pot from under the bed, then drew aside the blankets and scooped up his mother like a baby. It felt as if he were lifting a skeleton, her bones jutting through the nightgown.
Depositing his mother gently on the china pot, he went to look out of the window until she had finished.
Having returned her to bed, he shoved the pot back underneath, then tucked her up snugly, asking, ‘Is there anything else I can get you?’
‘Just my rosary, love.’
The brown beads rattled as he transferred them from the bedside table to his mother’s fingers, then he patted her tenderly and went downstairs.
Grace smiled to herself at his exit, amused that for all his consideration towards her, it had not extended to emptying the chamber pot, leaving such a chore to poor Gussie.
Probyn was the next to come up, bringing her tea on a tray and sitting with her to chat about his day and to make sure she ate everything.
Whilst he was there Grace noticed a small face peep round the door then quickly disappear. ‘Duke! You can come in, nobody’s going to bite.’
A reluctant Duke reappeared, eyeing his father for a second before coming to Grace’s bedside and without speaking, held a piece of paper out to her.
‘What’s this?’
‘I did it at school.’ Hands clasped behind his back he awaited his mother’s response.
&nbs
p; ‘Is this your writing?’ Grace looked proud and held it out to her husband. ‘Oh, look, Father, isn’t that wonderful for a six-year-old?’
Waiting for his father to pass judgement, Duke hardly dared look at him. Noting this, Probyn felt sorry that he had not tried harder to form a bond with his youngest son and was exceptionally warm in recompense. ‘Excellent – worthy of a twelve-year-old!’
Duke hoisted his shoulders in self-conscious manner but was obviously pleased as he grinned at his mother, then galloped from the room. Endowing her husband with an ethereal smile, Grace laid her hand upon his, hoping with all her heart that it was the start of a better relationship between father and son.
Later Duke was to return with the rest of the children to kiss their mother good night and to say their prayers at her bedside. Last in line, acting in nurse-like fashion Beata tucked the blankets around Grace’s chin, showing an unusual reluctance to leave the parental bedroom tonight and having to be manually dragged to her own.
Even then something kept her awake: not just the sound of her mother’s coughing but some awful nameless fear.
Eventually, though, the coughing stopped and through sheer exhaustion she drifted off to sleep, deaf to the stealthy procession of feet on the stairs throughout the night.
In the morning she arose to be told that her mother had gone to Jesus.
Whilst Beata and the rest sobbed, even the boys, Mims’s first reaction was one of disappointment that Mother had gone without taking her too. But then to her confusion was added alarm, for she was taken in to see her mother lying peacefully in bed and lifted up to kiss her cold cheek, and along with her siblings she burst into tears.
Steeped in his own pain, remembering a morning long ago when he had risen to find that his own mother had died and the rain had cascaded down the walls as he poured out his grief to Aunt Kit, Probyn knew what anguish his children were suffering. But there was nothing he could do to help and in that moment of excruciating loss he wished he could die too.
14
Having always left the running of the household accounts to his wife, Probyn wore a baffled expression as he sifted through the papers in the sideboard drawer, looking for details of the insurance fund he would need in order to pay for her burial. To one who kept meticulous records himself, he found Grace’s filing system chaotic. But trying to concentrate on this helped to take his mind off his debilitating grief.
A sombre Clem looked on. Up to now Father had unearthed burial club certificates for most of the children and for himself, but there was none with Mother’s name on it.
A brief announcement, ‘Ah, this must be it!’ Then a sigh. ‘No, this is Gussie’s – I thought I’d already got one for her.’ Mumbling to himself, Probyn put it aside and went on searching. ‘The blessed thing must be in here somewhere.’
But when he came to the bottom of the drawer and even lifted the wallpaper liner to see if anything had slipped underneath by accident there was no certificate for Grace to be found.
Clem did not fully interpret the vacuous expression in his father’s eyes, regarding it only as a mirror of the grief he himself was feeling.
How could Probyn explain to the lad that because of his mother’s failure to put money away for her own burial she had burdened her husband with the ignominy of a pauper’s funeral? Either this or throw himself on Aunt Kit’s goodness yet again.
No, it could not be the latter. He wasn’t a boy any more, he was a man and must face this on his own. There was no question of being able to raise the money. The only item of real value was the piano, but they had tried to sell that during the war and failed, and besides, even if he could sell it, with seven dependants he could not afford to waste money on a coffin. There was also Grace’s gold chain, but this had been so dear to her that he could not bring himself to part with it.
Clem had been staring at his father, trying to read his mind, but was now distracted by a shout from outside. ‘Mother’s coming!’
Clicking his tongue, he went out to chastise Mims but found she was already being taken to task for the mistaken identity by one of her tearful sisters. ‘I’ve told you Mother isn’t coming back!’
The woman walking down the street was of similar appearance to their mother, though on closer proximity she was nothing like her at all and Mims started to cry.
Augusta made as if to cuddle her. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.’
‘I don’t want you, I want Mother!’ Mims jumped up and down in a rage.
For a moment there was acute despair amongst the group, then Augusta saw another figure turn the corner, one they did know, and distressed though she was herself she diverted the crying child with encouraging words. ‘Oh look, Aunt Kit’s here!’
Hearing the announcement, Probyn wondered whether this was an omen, a sign from God that it was all right to ask for her help in burying his wife. He had not even written to tell her of Grace’s death yet. How had she known? But then he saw Kit’s face and knew that such extent of grief as was displayed there would never be expended on Grace. It had to be someone much dearer to her heart.
Kit had obviously been crying for a long time; her eyes were red slits in the blotched and swollen face. Scant attention was paid to the children today. Unable to convey her heartbreak she merely held out her arms to Probyn.
‘Oh Aunt, not Toby?’ When she nodded and collapsed into distraught sobs he could only hold her.
‘When? How?’
Between disjointed sentences and tears, he learned that Toby had contracted influenza yesterday. Kit had spent the night at the hospital only to see him die this morning. In a trance, she had come straight here, not knowing what else to do. She seemed totally lost.
The children beheld her tearfully, overwhelmed by this extra bereavement. Racked with grief, Kit was too dazed to notice them for now.
‘Gus, fetch Aunt Kit a cup of tea,’ ordered Probyn quietly, unable to bring himself to tell her about his own heartache yet.
A lump the size of an orange in her throat that threatened to choke and suffocate her, Kit took a huge juddering sigh, mopped her eyes and blew her nose, then sat there, twisting her handkerchief, saying nothing.
His own anguish put aside for the moment, Probyn wondered how to comfort his aunt. Words were inadequate but one had to say something. ‘Eh, I’m right sorry, Aunt, I truly am. Poor Toby, he was a grand lad; you were rightly proud of him. We all liked him. Eh, it seems so cruel for him to go like this after he’d come through the—’ He broke off as Kit’s face crumpled again. How thoughtless of him to voice this superfluous comment; as if it would not be going through Kit’s mind already. He turned instead to practicalities. ‘If you want me to help with the funeral arrangements…’
‘I don’t want to be arranging it, Probe!’ Kit bleated like a little child. ‘I want him and Worthy here with me and things like they used to be. It’s not fair!’
‘No, no it’s not.’ He gave quiet agreement and saw little point in making any other offer whilst she was so distressed.
After a while, Kit lifted her tear-stained face and took a deep breath. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, don’t apologize.’
‘Thanks, love. I can always rely on you, can’t I?’ She performed a damp, lacklustre smile, her swollen eyes gazing into space for a good few seconds before blurting, ‘Eh, Probe, what harm have I ever done to deserve this?’ And she wept again.
‘You haven’t done anything, Aunt.’ Probyn came up to pat the seated figure gently.
A grave Augusta appeared then with a tray and poured two cups of tea, whispering, ‘Do you want one, Clem?’
At his nod, she poured another, then left the room.
With only Clem remaining to keep his father and great-aunt company, a period of gloomy silence followed, the trio snatching periodic sips of hot tea, the men smoking, their hollow eyes gazing into midair.
‘Where’s Grace?’ It was not of particular interest to Kit, merely intended to break this awful silen
ce.
Probyn’s face altered. Overwhelmed by grief, he squeezed his eyes shut before answering, ‘I’m sorry to add to your upset, Aunt, but I’m afraid …’ a deep breath, ‘she died yesterday.’
Kit gasped and looked swiftly at Clem, who was staring at the ground between his knees, drawing furiously on his cigarette so as not to cry.
‘I was going to write to you today,’ continued an awkward-looking Probyn, rubbing his leg, ‘but, well, you know…’
‘Probe, I’m that sorry!’ Kit moaned. ‘I thought the children seemed subdued. I don’t know what to say.’
Probyn held up his hand. Taking a last drag of his cigarette he threw the butt on the fire. ‘You don’t need to say anything, you’ve got enough to concern you.’
Kit broke down again, oppressed not just by recent losses but by old ones too, the awful memory of her dress sprayed with blood as her favourite niece haemorrhaged to death in her arms from the same awful disease that had claimed Grace.
Gripping the bridge of his nose Probyn bent his head for a second. God, how would he cope without his dear wife? He had to keep talking or he would break down as well. ‘Anyway, Aunt, as I said I’ll help in any way I can.’
Kit blew her nose for the umpteenth time, the handkerchief feeling like sandpaper on her sore flesh, and said pathetically, ‘You don’t want burdening…’
He could tell by the way she said it that she desperately wanted him to lift her burden. ‘Honestly, I don’t mind.’
‘Well…’ she sniffed, ‘I suppose you will have to see the undertaker about Grace, so while you’re there … if it wouldn’t be too much bother, could I come with you?’
A Different Kind of Love Page 29
