Another visiting day came around. Kit donned her fur-trimmed winter coat and hat, a sealskin boa and boots, and set off for her brother’s house, pushing her new perambulator. Upon passing the Robin Hood’s Well, she saw Peggo come out for a breath of fresh air and smiled a greeting, knowing it would not be rebuffed as had often been the case with others.
She caught his wince. ‘Leg troubling you again, Mr Wilcox?’
He hid his discomfort to wander up close. ‘It would if I let it. How’s that there bairn o’ yours?’
‘She’s a bit genny today.’
Though not really interested in babies, Peggo engaged Kit in conversation for a while, before allowing her to go on her way. ‘Well, you’ll be genny if tha doesn’t watch that path round theer!’ He nodded towards the incline. ‘It’s treacherous.’
Kit found this to be true and tried to stick to the route that was covered in ashes, but almost lost her footing several times before reaching the corner. There were a couple of women waiting outside the privy at the end of the street. Kit did not know them, but inclined her head in polite fashion as she tottered passed. Despite the fact that she was respectably dressed and pushed an expensive perambulator, the pair looked at her as though she were contaminated.
Accustomed as she was to this, Kit still found it hard to ignore and was glad to reach Monty’s house, steering the vehicle inside too, for there was more room these days.
‘Here, don’t you be mucking up our Sarah’s clean floor,’ warned Gwen.
Provided with an old newspaper, Kit laid it under the ice-encrusted wheels. ‘Where is she?’
‘In the farleymelow.’ Charity was frowning and rubbing her arms. ‘Eh, put wood in t’oile, lass, we’re nithered here.’
Kit shut the door. ‘I didn’t know if you’d make it today. Weather doesn’t let up, does it?’
Gwen’s miserable visage provided agreement. ‘Wouldn’t have bothered coming at all if I’d known I were gonna be offered shop bread for my tea – no, I’m only kidding, clot!’ She made a pacific gesture at her brother. ‘Monty were just telling us how Sarah ain’t got the energy to bake her own now. Can’t say I blame her really. She looks bad, don’t she? I’d make some myself, but I know how uppity that’d make her.’
Catching Probyn’s sullen disapproval which he shared with his sisters, Kit said the shop bread was quite nice. Gwen said Kit would think so, seeing as she bought it too – and she didn’t even have the excuse of being ill.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with folk today,’ sighed Gwen. ‘The whole country’s going to rack and ruin, what with all this unemployment and whatnot – still, it’s not surprising with no leadership. One minute we’re told it’s the Liberals, next it’s the Tories.’ Amid great economic depression the Salisbury Government had resigned, Gladstone was once more at the helm. ‘How can you expect folk to know how to behave when the politicians are behaving so badly. Speaking of which, how is that little girl o’ yours today?’
As if in response a cry went up from the perambulator. Kit went to rock the handle in an attempt to calm Beata.
‘I were just telling Peggo, she’s been genny all morning.’
‘What’s genny?’ Probyn was seated on the fender with one hand clamped to his sandy forelock in the hope that permanent pressure would eventually make it lay down.
‘You should know that,’ said his shivering mother, entering upon an icy blast. ‘Considering you were the genniest baby of the lot.’
Charity answered her nephew. ‘It’s a bit like maungy.’
‘Well, I’ve lived round here all me life,’ remarked the youngster, ‘and I’ve never heard that word.’
‘Maungy, genny, or just downright miserable,’ said Monty, ‘can ’ee do sommat about that child o’ yours, Kit?’
‘She wants feeding,’ said Flora, hovering in her annoyingly earnest fashion.
‘She can’t be hungry, I’ve just fed her.’ Kit bent over the perambulator. ‘She’s usually so good – oh!’ She jumped back as a fountain of vomit just missed her.
‘That’s right, all over the rug,’ said Monty. ‘It’ll stink us out till Whitsun now.’
At their father’s behest Wyn and Meredith rolled the soiled rug up and carried it to the scullery. But still the floor was spattered and Sarah went to fetch a mop and bucket. Monty lifted his feet off the ground for the mop to pass beneath, but otherwise did nothing to help.
For the first time Probyn really looked at his parents, and discovered that it irked him to watch his sick mother running around while his father never lifted a finger.
‘I’ll do it, Mam!’ In manly fashion, he jumped up and took over the cleaning, resolving never to let his own wife carry such a burden.
Beata was screaming now. Dabbing at the baby’s sticky clothes, an anxious Kit picked her up and held her at arm’s length.
‘She’ll be all right now she’s got rid of whatever it was,’ soothed an unconcerned Gwen, barely shifting in her chair. ‘You new mothers always worry too much.’
‘But she looks as if she’s in such pain,’ breathed Kit, her troubled eyes running all over the grimacing child before cradling her gingerly.
Flora agreed. ‘Poor mite, it’s probably colic – that can be very painful. Give her some dill water.’
This was done, but with the baby continuing to scream, upsetting everyone around her, Kit decided to take her home. Sarah agreed with this decision, adding that Beata would probably want feeding again after vomiting all her last meal away. When the door closed on Kit a sigh of relief went up.
Normally, the motion of the perambulator would soothe the child immediately, but today Beata screamed and screamed all the way down the frozen street. Upset and flustered by the people who came to their windows to see what all the noise was about, Kit hurried as fast as the slippery surface would allow towards home.
Once there, she put the distressed child to her breast. Beata immediately suckled, moaning as she did so – but almost instantly she vomited again, and started to scream and twist about in agony. Panicking, Kit scrabbled to remove the pin from the child’s napkin – perhaps it had mistakenly pierced flesh. But no. Laying a concerned hand upon the small white abdomen Kit found it as hard as a rock, and the napkin was clean. Perhaps that was the problem. She delivered another teaspoon of dill water, knocking the bottle over in her panic, but ignored it to pace up and down, the babe in her arms, trying to soothe her, shushing and rocking. Eventually, after long desperate minutes, the dill water appeared to work, the screaming died down and Beata went to sleep.
Relieved, but hardly daring to move for fear of waking her, Kit sat down gingerly, the babe still in her arms, and found that she was trembling.
A while later, though, Beata woke and instantaneously emitted a bloodcurdling screech. Kit tried to feed her, but again the same thing happened, the child violently regurgitating all she had swallowed, as if suddenly allergic to her mother. And the dreadful screams began all over again.
Terrified, Kit wrapped her up, laid her in the perambulator and rushed back to Savile Row. Her sisters were just making ready to leave, swathed in coats and mufflers. All gathered round at her entry, trying to calm her and tell her it was nothing serious – things always seemed worse than they were with babies.
On being told about the clean napkin, Gwen gave a knowing nod. ‘Why, that’ll be it then! Give her some liquorice powder and she’ll be right as rain by morning.’
With Kit too upset to carry this out, Sarah administered the dose. Then, with the baby still making an awful din, the three elder sisters walked back along the icy path with Kit, waiting with her at home for a while until the crying ceased.
‘There you are,’ said Gwen with a comforting pat of Kit’s arm. ‘Told you that’d work. No time at all you’ll have a stinky old nappy – and don’t say we never give you aught.’
Concluding with a reassuring laugh, Gwen, Charity and Flora went on their way.
But before they were out of
sight, the terrifying screams began again.
* * *
After a dreadful night in which the paroxysms of pain reappeared at frequent intervals, Beata’s little face was by now haggard and pale, her belly tense and distended. All that had appeared in the napkin was bloodstained mucus. Knowing that something was seriously wrong, Kit wrapped the whimpering infant in a thick blanket, and hurried down to the doctor’s vine-clad house, slipping and skidding on the icy road.
There were others in the waiting room as Kit and her wailing bundle came in and sat on one of the rush-bottomed chairs. Before long, mutters joined the coughs and sneezes.
‘Listen to the poor little soul. It wants feeding. Why isn’t she doing owt?’
Kit tried to ignore them, kissing and lulling her baby as best she could, her heart pounding.
Angered by the baby’s pathetic cries a women took it upon herself to approach Kit. ‘That bairn wants feeding!’
‘She’s been fed!’ protested Kit, desperation in her voice, but was informed in no uncertain terms that her child was starving – one only had to look at her.
‘You’d think with the size o’ them udders she could feed an army,’ announced the complainer to another.
‘She’s been fed! She’s ill!’ Near to tears, Kit turned her rage inwards, condemning herself for not coming sooner and urging the doctor to hurry.
Finally, Dr Ibbetson peered into the waiting room. Without waiting for permission Kit rushed past him into the surgery, where she unwrapped her pathetic bundle for his inspection.
‘She can’t keep anything down, Doctor! She hasn’t had any nourishment since yesterday morning!’
As soon as he set eyes on the child, the doctor became grave, and warned Kit not to administer any more purgatives. It would only intensify the child’s agony.
‘But she hasn’t done her number twos!’ Kit was frantic.
He rubbed his face, looking almost as tormented as she was. ‘I’d say that’s because of a mechanical fault, Kit,’ he replied in sombre tone, unwilling to meet her eye. ‘There’s only one way to remedy this and that would be to open her up.’
Kit flinched. ‘Can you do it then?’
He shook his head sadly. ‘I’ve never attempted it on one so young. It would require a very skilled ma—’
‘Get the best!’ interrupted an agitated Kit. ‘I can pay whatever he asks!’
Dr Ibbetson looked regretful, and said in the kindest tone that he could muster that Beata was now so weak that she would not survive such an operation even if it could be done. ‘All I can do is give her something to ease her pain. I’d say it’ll only be a matter of hours.’
Aghast, Kit collapsed against the back of the chair and stared into space, great breasts bursting with milk, her mind trying to cope with the nightmarish thought: that having endured the agony of labour, the months of waiting – the years of longing – there could surely be no greater cruelty than to watch one’s beloved child starve to death.
25
‘My breasts hurt,’ murmured Kit, staring into empty space, but in a perverse kind of way enjoying the pain.
There was silence from those gathered in her cottage. Despite the merry flame in the hearth, the atmosphere was one of the utmost sadness. Receiving word via her brother, Charity had immediately come to offer comfort. Sarah, too, knew what it was like to lose a child and had chosen to sit with Kit through the day. Amelia had merely arrived for an impromptu visit and stumbled across the tragedy. The rest would be here for the funeral, but first there would have to be an inquest, to check that Beata had not been unlawfully killed, prolonging Kit’s ordeal.
‘I noticed someone advertising in the paper for a wet nurse in York,’ Amelia gave quiet utterance. ‘Maybe that would help – I mean, not just for the discomfort but to help you get over Beata, knowing you’re helping another little baby.’
Kit said nothing.
‘I suppose everything happens for a reason,’ came the sighed addition.
This inane comment was one too many. ‘What possible reason could there be for the death of a baby?’
Having never seen Kit so angry, they were shocked at her vehemence, Charity as usual acting as mediator. ‘She were only trying to offer comfort, love.’
‘I can do without that sort of comfort!’
Amelia tried to make amends. ‘No, it was daft of me. I know how you feel —’
‘How could you possibly know how I feel?’ cried Kit.
‘Taking it out on other people isn’t going to help,’ came Charity’s sad response.
This made Kit even more furious. ‘Don’t you ever get angry at anything?’
Charity said nothing, just got up and brewed another pot of tea. Kit wrenched her furious eyes back to the fire.
‘Don’t pour one for me,’ whispered a teary-eyed Amelia. ‘I’ll get off.’ With a hesitant look at her younger sister, she murmured, ‘I’ll be back in a few days, Kit. Sorry.’ Saying goodbye to the others, she swathed herself against the cold and left.
Kit was silent for a long time before apologizing to Charity. ‘I didn’t mean to take it out on you. It was just Amelia going on, when she doesn’t know – can’t know.’
Charity’s sallow face gave gentle reproof. ‘Then pity her rather than be angry, love. It isn’t her fault. It isn’t anybody’s fault. Sometimes, there is no rhyme nor reason.’
This was not what Kit wanted to hear either. During another long silence, she continued to gaze into mid-air.
‘My arms feel so empty.’
What could they say to that? Sarah and Charity exchanged cognitive glances, but remained silent.
There was the clip-clop of hoofs outside. Then a knock came at the door. Charity went to answer it. There had been many callers during the last twenty-four hours. This one, though, looked surprised upon finding her there.
Mr Popplewell had come to visit Kit, not knowing of her bereavement. When Charity showed him in, he was at a loss as to what to say, his toothy smile deserting him.
‘I’ll be off now.’ Charity picked up her coat and told Kit she would return.
Sarah, too, began to rise from her fireside chair. An anxious Popplewell told them not to go on his account – for what on earth would he find to say to a bereft mother? The sick-looking individual wrapped a shawl round her head and answered that she had to go and get her husband’s tea ready anyway. With that, Popplewell found himself alone with Kit.
‘I’ll just take t’hoss up to t’stables!’ He disappeared for a time.
When he came back he was no more equipped to cope. ‘I brought some scones for tea.’
‘Grand,’ murmured Kit. ‘Is the weather still as bad out there?’
‘Aye.’ Popplewell came to sit near the fire, rubbing his hands and looking ill at ease. ‘Roads are clear, though.’
‘Good.’ Kit stared into the fire. ‘Shall I put kettle on?’
Popplewell sprang up. ‘I’ll do it.’
He buttered some scones too, but Kit didn’t eat any of them.
‘I don’t know what to say, love,’ he offered lamely.
‘You can’t say owt,’ came the dull reply. ‘Just sit there with me.’
It grew dark. The two figures by the fire hardly moved nor said a word, until finally Popplewell straightened his back and said, ‘I suppose I’d better be off.’
Kit didn’t take her eyes from the fire. ‘Will you stay wi’ me?’
‘Aye, course I will,’ he answered, and reverted to his former pose.
* * *
In the morning a note came through the door. Seated by the fire in her lifeless position, Kit ignored it, in her mind performing the daily ritual: bathing her baby, dressing and feeding her. Popplewell finished buttering the toast and handed a plate to Kit before going to pick the note up. Unfolding the piece of paper, he found one word – ‘Murderer’. Startled, he screwed the letter up and threw it on the fire. ‘Only rubbish,’ he told her, then sat down to eat his breakfast.
&
nbsp; Afterwards he told Kit that he would stay on for the inquest, which would be tomorrow, followed by the funeral in the afternoon, though he would have to leave her briefly to cook dinner for a client this evening. Seeing she had not touched her toast he tried to encourage her to eat but to no avail.
‘Come and have a little walk and get some fresh air then,’ he coaxed. ‘It’ll make time pass a bit quicker.’
In agreement, Kit cast her glazed eyes around for outdoor wear that was appropriate to mourning. She being partial to much brighter colours, the black bombazine dress she wore now had hung in her wardrobe for years and smelled of mothballs. Rummaging around, Popplewell found a dark coloured cape and, reaching up, laid it around her shoulders. Aptly enrobed against the icy air, she allowed him to escort her, not knowing or caring where they were going, allowing him to lead the way.
Popplewell chose the route that led through the village and towards the bridge over the Calder. A woman on Main Street had defied the cold to scrub her front doorstep, her hands red raw. Hearing the sound of their boots crunching against the remnants of ice on the path, she lifted her head to greet the passers-by, but on seeing Kit her expression changed and she returned her attention to the step, scrubbing more vigorously. Two more women emerged from a shop, chatting, but broke off their conversation as Kit and her shorter male companion walked past.
Popplewell overheard one of them whisper, ‘Eh, she’s got a nerve!’ And he looked back sharply, but the culprit averted her face. Wondering whether Kit had heard, he glanced at her, but she showed no sign of having done so.
Feeling desperately sorry for her, he cracked a feeble joke. Wanting to feel normal, Kit gave an inappropriately loud laugh in response to something that was only slightly amusing.
A Sense of Duty Page 51
