‘None of us do,’ Eliza was equally sullen, ‘but we can’t all stay in bed.’ After a moment, she herself stretched and rose.
‘No, I mean I really don’t feel like it. I’m badly, Liza.’
Grace would have sympathized, would have crooned soothingly and called him poor thing and insisted he stay there, tucked him up and cosseted him. But Eliza’s response was, ‘If you don’t get up you don’t get paid.’ And taking it for granted that he would follow, she went downstairs.
It was a great effort to drag himself out of bed and, once on his feet he felt even worse, having to steady himself with the iron bedstead. Feeling as if he might vomit, he closed his eyes. The room began to spin and he sat down on the mattress again.
When he did not come down Eliza yelled up to him, ‘Do you want this breakfast or not?’
Taking a few deep breaths, he finally hauled himself to his feet and staggered down the staircase. With every step a knife was plunged into his skull.
Her stepmother’s voice having woken her, Beata was the first of the children to come down. Her father was seated in a stiff, unnatural pose at the table, his head bowed. Unusually, he did not lift his face to greet her.
Then, with a hint of decisiveness he pushed aside his plate. ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t stomach that. I’m off back to bed.’
‘You’re not, you know!’ Eliza warned him. ‘I can’t afford to lose a day’s money. I’ve just managed to get us back on our feet after the strike.’
‘I’m sick, woman.’ Probyn spoke through gritted teeth.
‘And I’m sick! Sick of trying to make ends meet—’
‘For God’s sake—’
‘Oh, get back to bed then!’ she goaded him. ‘You’re bloody useless. I thought I was getting a man, not an invalid.’
Deeper and deeper and deeper she drove, like a fungus boring into the heart-wood of this fine oak, whilst he held his throbbing head and hoped he would not vomit.
‘Look at you!’ Her face was twisted in spite. ‘You’re acting like an old man. Why, you might as well be dead for all the use you—’
‘I couldn’t care if the Lord took me tomorrow!’ So saying, his face blood-red, an enraged Probyn bent and seized the iron fender that surrounded the hearth, raised it above his head and hurled it with such passion through the open doorway that it soared almost to the end of the yard and landed with a terrifying clatter that made Beata cower and tremble.
Eliza was cowering too. Her eyes, robbed of that usual cocksure gleam, were now wide and uncertain and she backed away, fearing that she would be next to feel his madness. But Probyn’s anger was quickly spent. Too sick to utter another word, he simply lurched from the room.
For a moment, Eliza remained behind the chair to which she had clung for protection. Only at the sound of his feet creeping painfully up the staircase followed by the bemused appearance of other members of the family, did she emerge, delivering a rough shove to Beata. ‘Get those plates on the table!’
* * *
Beata worried all day about her father’s health and consequently was first in from school that afternoon. It was a vast relief to see him up and about, though his face was a most irregular colour as he made his way to the lavatory and when he came back it was not to sit down but to head straight for the stairs. Beata noticed that her stepmother did not speak to him, her lips merely pursed in contempt.
About to help with the preparation of tea, Beata heard her father say, ‘Ooh, me head,’ and she turned to look at him, just as he sank to the carpet in a faint – no, he was not completely unconscious, for Beata saw that his eyes were open and his mouth was twisted as he tried desperately to speak. She gave a little cry and looked at her stepmother.
For a second Eliza remained at her post by the sink, shock spreading over her face, then cautiously she came forth and bent over him.
‘Go fetch Nurse Gentle.’
Mirroring her father’s paralysis, though her own was incurred by horror, the little girl could not move
‘Did you hear me?’ Eliza’s harsh words and a rough shove jarred Beata into action.
Charging from the house, she rushed to an adjacent street and Fanny’s house, but no one answered her knock. After a frantic moment, she pelted to the Rushton household where she knew there would be a friendly face. The window was open and to save time she used it.
Mr Rushton, the colliery policeman, had just come in from work and was enjoying a cup of tea when the voice bellowed through the lace curtain.
‘Me father!’
‘Eh, Beat, you nearly had me upskelling hot tea on me privetties!’ Mr Rushton looked as shocked as his wife, who was clutching her bosom, both peering out of the window at the distraught child.
‘Nurse Gentle’s not in!’ panted Beata. ‘Me Father’s fallen on the floor and he can’t get up.’
Mrs Rushton was instantly calm and went outside. ‘Don’t fret, honey,’ she tried to allay the child’s fears as they set off for Cliff View, large breasts thrusting ahead of her under the bib of her pinafore. ‘He might not be as bad as you think.’
But when they arrived and she saw Probyn, totally unconscious now upon the floor, her demeanour became grave and, after stooping to examine him, she lifted her face and told Eliza, ‘Looks like a stroke.’
A concerned Eliza nodded, plucking at her chin. ‘That’s what I thought.’
‘We need to get him into bed,’ said Mrs Rushton, using the edge of the table to pull herself upright.
Eliza gesticulated at a rickety bed-chair by the fire. ‘We’ll put him on that.’ Deftly, she unfolded the wooden frame.
‘Ah, good, you’re here!’ Mrs Rushton looked grateful upon seeing her husband, who had come to investigate. ‘We’ll need help to shift him; he’s a big lad.’ She glanced at the knot of children who had just arrived home, bewildered and afraid by what they witnessed. ‘Your father’ll be all right, don’t worry. Beat, be a good lass and run down and fetch the doctor.’
Whilst Beata hurried away the Rushtons and their helpers struggled to convey Probyn’s leaden body from the carpet to the makeshift bed that creaked and groaned in protest as his fourteen-stone frame was laid upon it.
Then there was little else to be done except to stand back and await medical help.
* * *
Still unconscious, Probyn was to remain upon the bed-chair for three days. On each of these days when Beata and her siblings came home from school they would rush to see if he had recovered, but the answer was invariably the same.
‘Don’t bother to run, he’s no different,’ Eliza would warn them with a hint of exasperation the moment they dashed through the door, which to them signified heartlessness, and they paid no heed and gathered round their father, looking for a sign that he might suddenly wake, the stepchildren hovering in the background.
Clem and Joe too made it their first act to examine their father upon coming in from work, both equally anxious.
Though Probyn had allowed his religion to lapse Father Flanagan was amongst those who came to offer his support, this being in the form of prayers. Eliza didn’t like him being here, the children could tell from the snide remarks she made after he had gone, but it was a comfort to them and they echoed his appeals to the Lord. So too did Augusta when, informed of her father’s affliction by letter, she came on Friday evening, spending her whole time kneeling at his bedside, pressing each rosary bead so fervently in her prayers that her fingers became indented and sore.
If Eliza shared the children’s anxiety then she showed it in a curious way, going about her business as if nothing had happened and even berating their desire to linger at his bedside. ‘You needn’t think you’re sitting round him all day. You wouldn’t expect to do it if he was like this permanently so what’s the point of doing it now? Now, you’ve seen him and paid your respects, come and make yourselves useful because you’re not doing your father a bit of good.’
Had any of them been able to read her mind they would hav
e condemned as even more pitiless the thought that was going through her head as she laid eyes on their father’s motionless frame: this is all I need, a helpless invalid to look after besides ten others.
But even going about their various tasks, if in the same room the children’s eyes would make constant checks on their father, and it was one such glance from Duke that witnessed Probyn open his eyes. ‘He’s alive!’ His triumphant cry had the others leaping to the bedside.
Their stepmother in the lavatory, there was no one here to curb them except Augusta who, calm and kindly, prevented Duke from jumping on the bed. ‘Ssh! Don’t crowd him.’
Afraid, Mims’ hand sought out Madeleine’s. Duke chewed on his knuckle.
Heart lifting, Beata watched as her father’s blue-grey eyes struggled to focus, saw the expression in them turn from blurred confusion to terror and then frustration as his lips tried to form speech but could only emit an animal grunt. And the smiles began to fade from the children’s faces as saliva dribbled from his flaccid lips, his panic turning to anger, then finally weakening to acceptance, and by the time Eliza returned he had slipped back into unconsciousness.
‘Me Father woke up but he’s gone back to sleep,’ Duke informed his stepmother the moment she was through the door.
Eliza hurried up and peered closely at her husband. Then, ‘You’re making it up!’ she chastised them crossly and sent them back to their chores.
‘We’re not,’ Beata vouched as she went. ‘He opened his eyes, we all saw it.’
Eliza responded callously to this show of impertinence. ‘Well, he’s not awake now, is he? And no amount of romancing from you is going to bring him back to life!’
She was right. Their father was not to recover consciousness again. He died on Sunday.
* * *
Once again, dazed with grief the Kilmaster children gathered around a parent’s coffin, to kiss his cold cheek. So many cold cheeks. Watching, their stepmother made no move to comfort them, even in her tears being strangely aloof, as if she were blaming Father for dying.
It was left to Augusta and Clem to offer solace to the younger ones, which indeed they did, but for the latter it was a strange time. Bereft though he undoubtedly was, Clem had always felt inferior to his father, and when Eliza announced that she would need his support a shaft of light percolated his grief, he seized his chance to be a man, telling her not to worry, that he would look after her, after them all.
It was Clem, therefore, who made all the funeral arrangements, who wrote to inform their aunts and uncles of Probyn’s sudden death, who met them at the station and introduced them to the various neighbours who were to be their hosts, there being not enough room at the Kilmaster house for all these people.
After the interment, though, Eliza did invite them back to her parlour for a tea of ham and fruit cake, even the children being allowed to participate.
‘Eh dear.’ A crumb-laden plate in her hand, Ethel’s unfocused blue eyes were moist as they gazed into space and she shook her head miserably. ‘I still can’t get over the shock. You don’t expect the youngest to go first – well, our Beata was first to go but you imagine there’ll be some sort of order to dying, don’t you? I fully expected to be next.’
Noting the children’s distress, Meredith fought her own anguish and tried to bolster them, tapping Beata’s leg affectionately. ‘Eh, your father was such a funny bairn! I remember, we once went on a picnic, our Probe wouldn’t be more than three – I was only five meself but I remember it as clear as day – he went rummaging about in the grass and fetched Aunt Kit a dead chaffinch for her hat. It stunk to high heaven! But she had to pretend it was just what she wanted.’ Succeeding in making them laugh, she chuckled too, but there were tears in her eyes when she turned to Eliza. ‘Can we help in any way, dear? Perhaps take the children to stay with us for a while? We’ve had them before. They’re no bother.’
‘Oh no, that’s very kind but it won’t be necessary.’ Eliza showed gratitude.
‘I don’t envy you with ten to care for on your own,’ sighed Alice.
‘She won’t be on her own.’ Flattered that Eliza thought him capable of filling the role of man of the house, Clem was determined to repay her confidence in him. ‘I’ll look after her.’
To his siblings’ wonder, Eliza allowed their brother this moment’s dominance, beaming upon him gratefully as she added, ‘And it’s not as if they’re all helpless children. Joe and Edwin are young men and Madeleine’ll be getting a job.’
This being the first she had heard of it, Madeleine looked at her stepmother sharply. Her own intention had been to stay at school for as long as possible and then go into nursing, but that plan looked destined for failure now.
Finally, paying their respects to the widow and to Probyn’s children, the aunts and uncles departed to catch their trains to various parts of the country.
Prohibited from play, the children were forced to sit in respectful silence until bedtime which came much earlier this evening, Eliza irritated by their doleful presence.
As the rest made for bed, a solemn Beata tarried to ask her stepmother, ‘Will I still be taking Mims for her lesson tomorrow?’
‘Huh! You will not. We’ll be lucky if we can afford food now, let alone piano lessons.’ Eliza saw Mims’ look of dismay and pointed a finger at her. ‘And before you start, lady, there are other things you’re going to have to get used to. Your father’s not here to mollycoddle you now. Mark my words, things are going to change around here.’
Her objection stifled, the disconsolate infant turned and went to bed with the others, Eliza’s harsh words invoking not just a sense of loss but one of foreboding.
Part Three
20
The changes came thick and fast, allowing the children little time to grieve. Adjacent to the cancellation of Mims’ piano lessons on Saturday, Madeleine was packed off to find a job and told not to come back till she had found one; the portrait of Probyn’s dead sister, which Eliza had always thought a monstrosity, was taken from the wall and along with other hated items that had once belonged to Grace, was thrown on the cart of a passing rag-and-bone man in exchange for sixpence. The Sabbath brought even more dramatic consequence.
‘I’m not pandering to any more whims,’ came Eliza’s brisk announcement at the time the children normally branched out to separate places of worship. ‘Everyone’s to go to All Saints.’
‘We can’t!’ This was a rash utterance from fourteen-year-old Joe. ‘It’s not the real church!’ Receiving a hefty smack round the head, he beheld his stepmother with total shock.
She directed a finger of warning, this reflected in her eyes. ‘Don’t you dare cheek me! You’re going.’
Waiting only for Eliza to go into the scullery, Joe bounded upstairs to solicit help from Clem, who was still in bed, Beata following.
‘Don’t talk bloody daft,’ Clem growled from under the blankets when informed of the heinous crime about to be perpetrated upon them. ‘Church is church.’
‘So you’ll be going to All Saints then, Clem?’ Beata wanted confirmation that they would not be struck down in flames.
‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Her eldest brother had decided to take advantage of his elevation to man of the house by lazing in bed.
‘But what would Father say?’
‘Never mind what Father would say!’ Clem hoisted an irritated face. Tm saying do as your mother tells you!’ After a brief glare he allowed his head to flop back to the pillow, turning his back on them.
His brother and sister stared at him wonderingly, Beata with tears pricking her eyes. Father had been gone only a week yet Clem seemed already to have settled quite comfortably into the niche he had etched for himself, siding with their stepmother as if now on equal footing with her.
Under the pretext of obedience, the youngsters left the house, but the moment they were outside Joe rammed his cap on defiantly. ‘I’m buggered if I’m being relegated to eternal damnation. I’m off to
me own church.’
Equally adamant, Madeleine joined her voice to his, the much younger Duke, Beata and Mims merely falling in with them, and, upon reaching All Saints they declined to enter with their stepsister and brothers and went on to St Alban’s.
They might have known George would betray them, sitting there gloating whilst Eliza dished out her punishment. Without Father to restrain her she was free to vent her aggression, thrashing each of them with a shoe and telling them, ‘You’re only getting your dinner because I don’t want my hard work wasted! Try disobeying me next week and you’ll go hungry!’
It was useless for the brothers to dish out any retribution of their own, for George would simply inform on them for this too. Hence, the following Sunday, Joe put it to his siblings that it was either excommunication or a good hiding from Eliza, and as privately he himself was more afraid of his stepmother than the flames of hell he had decided to go to All Saints.
The others, though dreading the wrath of God that would surely befall them, nevertheless followed his lead, Beata grasping for a comforting thought, ‘Perhaps if we don’t say any of their prayers Our Lord’ll forgive us.’
The rest agreed, though were to find that standing tight-lipped whilst the worshippers made their incantations was bound to draw attention to them, this instilling great discomfort. After what seemed like hours they emerged into the sunlight, swearing they could not go through such an ordeal again and looking tentatively skywards as if expecting to be struck by a bolt of lightning.
But retribution was to come in a more human form. It was the custom on Monday, when the Catholic pupils were summoned from class to attend Father Flanagan’s instruction, for the question to be asked, ‘Who did not attend Mass yesterday?’ The sinners would receive punishment, though the Kilmasters, being raised by such a devout mother, had never had occasion to encounter this.
Today, though, when the question came, Beata, Duke and Mims were compelled to raise their hands.
A Different Kind of Love Page 42
