Barefoot on the Cobbles

by Janet Few

  Polly dreaded the monthly ritual that saw the Powell family walk solemnly up to the new burial ground, to honour their dead child. The whole household were expected to join in the ceremony at the graveside. The two years since Florence’s passing had done nothing to assuage her mother’s heartache; Mrs Powell’s crushing grief was palpable. Captain Powell endured the proceedings, aided by the imbibing of several stiff whiskies beforehand. Polly had learned to replenish the decanters on the sideboard before and after these visits. William was frankly bored, he barely remembered his sister. His mother’s unbecoming public show, after all this time, was an embarrassment. He kicked at the gravel on the path and had to be reminded to remove his hands from his pockets. Frances and Rosamund assumed an air of sadness but in reality, were too self-absorbed to do more than give their departed sister a fleeting moment’s attention. Young Margaret though, found these expeditions especially distressing. She had been seven when the rheumatic fever laid its sinister hand on Florence; old enough to be bereft but too young to understand. Florence had been the first person to be laid to rest in the new graveyard and Polly knew that Margaret fretted that her sister might be lonely up on the hill, away from her family, in the sparse cemetery. For Margaret, each freshly-dug grave was a relief, a signal that Florence had a new companion.

  Polly had grown close to Margaret, the youngest of the Powell children. Frances was quite a young lady, only four years Polly’s junior but the obligatory barrier between servant and served prevented any familiarity. Margaret though, was as yet untrammelled by the social superiority that had been acquired by her older sisters. On several occasions since her arrival at Chudleigh Villa, Polly had been woken by Margaret creeping into the room; the child shaken by unspeakable nightmares and seeking reassurance. Gradually, as Polly gained Margaret’s confidence, the little girl shared the fragmented memories of her sister’s last weeks. She was haunted by visions of Florence jerking and trembling as she lay shaven-headed on the chaise, striving to shake off the effects of the fever that had weakened her heart beyond repair.

  Her time at Portledge meant that Polly was used to the habits of rich folk. She was well aware that it was customary for parents and children to live in such a way that their paths rarely crossed. Yet Polly had swiftly realised that Mrs Powell’s demeanour in the presence of her children was unusually dismissive, even for the gentry. There was something too about the formality of the cemetery visits that was disquieting. Grief was normal, losing a child was a great sadness but Mrs Powell’s absorption with her dead daughter, to the exclusion of her surviving children, was unnerving. Frances, nearing adulthood, was expected to spend most of her day in the morning room, embroidering, or painting delicate, floral watercolours that Polly much admired. Mrs Powell sat in solitude in the drawing room and rarely acknowledged Frances. When Rosamund and Margaret came back from Misses Ley’s school each day, their presence was a sobering reminder of the aching void left by Florence. The girls were encouraged to scuttle upstairs to the nursery and remain there until bedtime. That way, their mother could forget that she now had three daughters, when once there had been four.

  The autumn was the worst, the shortening of the days marked both Florence’s birthday and the anniversary of her death. This year, as soon as the rites at the cemetery were over, Mrs Powell took to her bed with the vapours. The children tiptoed round the house, terrified of exacerbating their mother’s anxiety. Mr Powell spent increasing hours at his club. Polly would hear him returning home late at night, occasionally stumbling and uttering expletives as he crashed into the furniture. Each day, Polly brought more wine bottles up from the cellar and the drawing room decanters depleted with alarming rapidity.

  Taking some smelling salts upstairs to her prostrate mistress, Polly was alarmed to hear a desperate weeping from behind the door. She hesitated and waited for the sobs to subside before knocking. Responding to her mistress’ whispered command, she entered. Mrs Powell looked at her through swollen eyelids.

  ‘Do you have a sweetheart?’ she asked.

  ‘No ma’am,’ replied Polly, guiltily disregarding the vision of Albert and wondering why Mrs Powell should pose such a question.

  The words tumbled from the tormented woman, ‘Never have children. Never love a child. You get too close and they’re taken from you; then there’s no escape from the heartbreak.’

  The prospect of parenthood had been in Polly’s thoughts of late. Despite her move to Bideford, her carefully nurtured relationship with Albert had grown into a vital part of her life. She hugged the secret to her, recalling the first Sunday she had returned to Peppercombe, after taking up her post with the Powells. She had managed to have a long conversation with Albert, as they lingered on the way home from chapel, somehow shaking off Polly’s younger sisters. Despite Polly’s determination to lead a new life in Bideford, they had come to an understanding. Since then, Polly and Albert snatched brief meetings when she visited her parents and lately, Albert had taken to walking out to Bideford to see her when he could. Polly was struck by the power of Mrs Powell’s words. This fleeting exchange pierced her consciousness, casting an enduring shadow over the prospect of her future with Albert.

  ***

  The spring brought hope. Polly enjoyed walking with Albert through the woods beyond Bank End. They marvelled at the snowdrops, the primroses, the fluffy catkins and delicate wood anemones. Polly was glad to get away from Chudleigh Villa; Mrs Powell’s sorrow stifled them all. The Captain’s army friends came to visit and Polly would have to serve sherry or brandy whilst they became increasingly jovial before descending into irritability. The Captain’s drinking did nothing to lighten the mood and aroused the wrath of his wife. Polly, going quietly about her duties, would hear raised voices as Mrs Powell complained and her husband blustered. Then the door would crash yet again, as he left the house for the more congenial atmosphere of his club. Polly tried not to eavesdrop but sometimes it was impossible not to overhear.

  ‘But we’ve not the money Thomas, you know we haven’t. Goodness knows, we should be comfortably off. You sold your commission and frittered it all away. Two thousand five hundred pounds Thomas, a small fortune, enough to set us up for life, all gone. It was a blessing that your mother came to our aid. We wouldn’t have this house if it weren’t for her.’

  ‘It was my right Emily, you know I got nothing from my father’s estate.’

  ‘No. And why was that do you think? Because he knew it would all be gambled away. I’ve sold all the pictures and the good silver. There’s nothing of any value left. Even the beds we sleep in belong to your mother. It isn’t fair on the children. Frances should be at finishing school but no, she’s here all day with nothing to occupy her but her painting. We can’t afford to bring her out, so she doesn’t meet anyone suitable. She’s destined to be an old maid. I’ve given the Misses Ley notice that Rosamund will leave at Easter. It is far earlier than she should but we can’t afford to keep her there. At least we are saving on William’s schooling now he is taking lessons from Reverend Roberts.’

  Official looking letters arrived, letters that Polly would place on the papier-mâché tray that had replaced the silver one. This she would hand to Captain Powell who would glance at the envelopes and toss them, unopened, in the wastepaper basket. Then furtive looking men would call, asking for the Captain. Polly had been instructed to say that he was not at home. Fortunately, she was rarely obliged to lie, as her employer spent as much time away from the house as he could. More rows ensued. The atmosphere became unbearable. Polly found herself flinching at every harsh word, every door slammed. Shouldering their problems as if they were her own, she became increasingly unhappy. She had been here nearly two years now, she could go back to Peppercombe without any sense of failure but the thought of abandoning Margaret prevented her from giving notice.

  The drawing room door was ajar. The Powells’ words clearly carried to where Polly was polishing the hall floor.

  ‘Court, Thomas. The shame of it
. We shall never hold our heads up again. We’ve already had to leave Plymouth and then Tavistock. Now we shall have to move away from Bideford as well. Only this time it means leaving Florence. I cannot bear the thought of that.’

  Above Mrs Powell’s sobs, Polly could hear the decanter clashing against the glass and the glug of the whisky being poured.

  Ignoring his wife’s distress, Captain Powell responded unfeelingly, ‘I quite fancy a change of scene. I wouldn’t want to return to Plymouth of course but Portsmouth perhaps, or Southampton.’

  Mrs Powell regained her composure and resumed her tirade, ‘Why couldn’t you just have found enough to pay off Mr Tardrew? If you’d only done that, all this might have been avoided. Then there’s that money you owe to Tanton’s Hotel, how could you have run up such a bill? Your mother has been more than generous, we should be able to live comfortably on the three hundred pounds a year that she gives us. What on earth will she think? We cannot expect her to keep making us an allowance if you are such a spendthrift. It is no wonder that your brother has washed his hands of you.’

  ‘What’s done is done, eh Emily,’ Captain Powell replied. ‘Like as not I shall be declared bankrupt again. It will be as it was when I first left the army. Mother will come up trumps, she always does.’

  Her husband’s inability to take their plight seriously frustrated her.

  ‘Can’t you see Thomas, she shouldn’t have to. What kind of man lives off his mother? I should have listened to my father. He said you had no prospects but I was a foolish girl who had her head turned by a man in uniform. I thought things would change when we moved away from all your cronies at the barracks but I should have known better. You will always be profligate. I try to run the household as economically as possible, making do with just one servant and there you are, off to Tanton’s Hotel again playing cards. Then there is your drinking. I am happy for you to entertain your gentlemen friends here. I thought it preferable to you frequenting the club but then I chanced to go to the cellar because Polly was unsure which wine to bring to the table and I find we have only a few bottles left. You must have been very liberal with your hospitality. Then, when you are in drink, you enter into more rash bets.’

  ‘Now Emily, I won quite a sum just last night, you know I did and the atmosphere is convivial. A man needs the company of other fellows.’

  Mrs Powell’s sign of exasperation was audible, even to Polly.

  ‘That’s not the point Thomas. You may have won yesterday but think of all the times when you have lost. It seems you can’t even play a hand of bridge without gambling heavily on the outcome.’

  Polly gathered up her polishing cloths and moved so that she could no longer hear the angry exchanges. It sounded as if the family might leave Bideford. In a way it would be a relief if her post came to an end. Regardless of how much she wanted to be able to comfort Margaret, working for the Powells was becoming intolerable.

  ***

  Albert and Polly sat in the shelter on the northern edge of Bideford quay, looking across the river towards Chudleigh Fort. The occasional cart rattled by, as it turned the corner past the Science and Art School. In a few months, the heat would make sitting on the edge of the marshes unpleasant but in early March, with the faint spring sunshine rending the high white clouds, they were content with this as a meeting place. Polly poured out her concerns to the young fisherman who sat decorously beside her. She had been unsettled by the upheaval of Captain Powell’s trial.

  ‘’Tidn’t right that you be there any longer. ’Tis upsetting ee,’ said Albert. ‘’Tis time we be wed. We’ve waited long enough.’

  ‘What’ll your ma and da say?’ asked Polly. ‘I know they aren’t best pleased that we be walkin’ out.’

  ‘Nor your folks neither,’ replied Albert. ‘They believe all that fierce Spaniard nonsense.’

  ‘I don’t think they’d be happy, whoever we’d chosen,’ said Polly, sagely. ‘They just want us to bide at home, with nothin’ changin’.’

  ‘Seems, as you get older, you forgets what ’tis like to be young.’

  ‘Will my da give his say so, do you think?’ asked Polly. ‘I can’t be wed without his permission. I just want to get away from the Powells. ’Tis proper miserable up there, what with Mrs Powell weeping for Florence, that gets no better. Then there’s all this trouble with Captain Powell being up in court. There’s no money for anything. I doubt they can afford to keep me on much longer in any case.’

  ‘We will be wed afore long,’ reassured Albert. ‘Don’t fret about your da. You’ll soon turn twenty one, ’tis not long to wait, then none can gainsay us. Yes, that’s it, sometime after Easter it’ll be, as soon as we can get everything arranged.’

  In the end, they settled for the Saturday after Whitsun. Polly gave notice and Mrs Powell expressed regret but barely disguised her relief at the thought of a wage saved and one fewer mouth to feed. Forsaking their home villages, Albert and Polly married at Bideford’s Bethesda Chapel. Their parents, still mildly disapproving, stayed away but they were not lacking family to watch them exchange their vows. Albert’s brother Fred stood up for him and Polly had her sister Ada and cousin Athaliah as bridal attendants. Athaliah had finally broken through Frank Holwill’s reserve and she too was to be married later that year. In the few days before the wedding, Polly returned to Mill Street to stay with the Prances and the cousins chatted excitedly about their plans, jokingly comparing the merits of their sweethearts.

  Ada arrived from Peppercombe on the Friday bringing family news.

  ‘Ma sends her love,’ she said. ‘She wishes you well, ’tis in part the journey, you know she’s never liked the town. ’Tisn’t that ma hasn’t taken to Albert so much but he is from Bucks and that’s hard for her to swallow. She wants us all to settle down in Peppercombe and not go no further.’

  ‘And shall you?’ asked Polly.

  Ada reddened.

  ‘Well,’ she said hesitantly, ‘who knows? Maybe I’ll be wed to a man from Bucks too one day.’

  ‘Oh,’ replied Polly, curious now. ‘Who might that be then?’

  ‘’Tis too soon to say,’ said Ada, ‘but there’s one who’s shown an interest.’

  Polly was saddened that her father was not going to see her as a bride. Unlike her ma, he could not use the journey as an excuse. He still walked in to Waters’ boatyard each week. If their ma wanted the five Wakely sisters to marry Peppercombe lads, it seemed that their da didn’t want them to marry at all. No one would ever be good enough in his eyes. Nonetheless, he called in to see Polly after finishing his week’s work and pressed coins in her hand.

  ‘I’ll not be there maid,’ he said. ‘Always vowed I’d not set foot in any chapel but a Bible Christian one and I be too old to change my ways now.’

  So it was Uncle Joe who walked Polly up the aisle. Aunt Susan had puffed round the corner from Mill Street at the last minute, not wanting to leave young Willie minding the shop alone for longer than was necessary. Lydia had claimed she was unable to get the morning off from Mrs Newman’s but Polly knew better. Lydia still sought the rich, older gentleman of her dreams and was resentful of a younger sister beating her to the altar.

  Reverend Page pronounced them man and wife. Polly’s gold-flecked eyes looked up to Albert, where he stood at her side, tall and reassuring. She was relieved to be sharing her life with a man who was so very different from her reckless, unreliable employer. Their families had foresworn strong drink years ago and Albert would no more think of gambling than he would of jumping from the parapet of Bideford Bridge. Polly had found her safe harbour.

  Young Hilda, now a grave five year old, proudly preceded the couple out of the chapel after the ceremony. Polly looked wistfully at the wilting foxgloves that the child carried in a wicker basket. She was glad to have spent these past two years in Bideford. It had opened her eyes to the wider world but now she longed to be back in a place where the wildflowers bloomed and she could breathe the country air.

 
Polly’s time at Chudleigh Villa had left its mark. It was not principally the fear of the effects of alcohol, Polly’s temperance upbringing had already ingrained this in her. Although she shrank from the thought of debt, women of Polly’s class were used to conserving coins and took pride in living within their means, regardless of the personal cost. The deepest scar that she carried with her from the old life to the new was the dread of allowing herself to love a child.

  4

  1894-1909

  Polly was watching the chaotic clouds and the unceasing rain that pounded uncaringly on the pitted panes. Mrs Hamlyn had promised that the windows would be replaced but for now, the scratched glass, in its rotting frame, rattled and clanged with each succeeding gust. On the shore, sea-birds huddled on cliff-side niches, with their backs to the storm, feathers ruffled and chicks fledged. All week, the restless fishermen had watched gloomily, unable to check their pots for the sea’s bounty, much needed during this poor summer. The storms of the past weeks had left them landside all too often and shore-bound tasks were done. Purposeless, they yarned under the shelter of the archway outside the Red Lion or plagued wives, already short-tempered and strained from eking out meagre supplies.

  Polly had been pleased when Alb had announced that their first home together should be in Clovelly, a bustling fishing village just along the coast from Bucks Mills. It was only fitting that they should strike out on their own and not live under the oppressing eye of their families. All the cottages that straggled up Clovelly’s cobbled street were owned by Mrs Hamlyn. Her husband, Frederick, was a shadowy consort, it was she who held the power. Albert was used to fishing alongside the Clovelly boats, so, anxious for independence, he had sought an audience with Mrs Hamlyn’s land agent, Mr Caird, enquiring if there was a suitable home available in the village. They had been granted the opportunity of renting the two-roomed cottage known as Rat’s Castle. This tiny dwelling near the quay was reserved for newly-weds and it had suited them well for the past year. Now, with the impending arrival of their first child, they had moved to a larger cottage, near the Methodist Chapel. Albert was content working his fishing boat from Clovelly; putting out from the shelter of the harbour was preferable to the unforgiving Bucks Mills’ shoreline. Here, if necessary, he could handle a boat alone. Usually though, he fished with his brother Fred, who had joined him in the move. Fred was unmarried still but he had settled in the Bow, with their distant cousin Eli. Albert was pleased to have his brother close at hand, reassured that young Eadie was firmly ensconced in Rose Cottage to lighten the lives of their parents.