Barefoot on the Cobbles

by Janet Few

  Polly had not found it a wrench to leave Bideford; she had tired of the busyness of town life. She had had her adventure, it was time to settle down. The force of Mrs Powell’s dire warnings had receded; Polly was ready to be a mother now. As her pregnancy advanced, Polly longed for companionship, for a confidante. The days dragged whilst Albert was at sea. She wished that one of her sisters was nearer to hand. It could not be the supercilious Lydia, who was still revelling in her senior post at Mrs Newman’s, nor the retiring Jane, who would be flustered and nervous when Polly’s time came. So, in the end, it was Ada who came out from Peppercombe, to help with the move to Chapel Street and to aid her elder sister in the final weeks of her confinement. Ada, at eighteen, was old enough to be a real support, a reassurance, as Polly embarked on the uncharted pathway towards motherhood. Not having had a child herself, it would not be seemly for Ada to help with the delivery, so it was agreed that, as soon as Polly’s first pains started, Eliza Wakely would put aside her reluctance to leave Peppercombe and come to oversee the birth of her first grandchild. Polly and Albert’s parents had mellowed with the news of impending grandparenthood. Both sides of the family were now reconciled to the spouse that their offspring had chosen.

  The old women had been gnashing their gums and nodding wisely for weeks, commenting that Polly was carrying well. It must be a boy, no, it must be a girl. Ada had brought strict instructions from their mother; Polly was to walk a little each day. So, despite the weather, the sisters took regular strolls down to the quay. Worrying though the cool summer was, at least Polly was spared the heat as she hauled her heavy body from shore to home. Polly and Ada busied themselves with preparations for the baby. Napkins were cut from rough towelling and diminutive nightgowns were smocked. Polly’s father had fashioned a cradle and Lydia had sent impractical embroidered coverlets.

  Poor weather deterred the tourists, although the fitful sunshine on Bank Holiday Monday encouraged resolute visitors, hopeful that the clouds would disperse. Albert spent the day bringing trippers ashore from the steamers that were moored beyond the bay. They arrived from Bristol, from Cardiff and from along the coast in Ilfracombe, adding to those who had journeyed by charabanc from Bideford railway station. They were eager to see Clovelly’s quaint cobbles and to gawk at the residents, as if they were there on show for the sole benefit of the holidaymakers.

  The stormy summer crawled on and Polly lurched from excited expectation to restive boredom. As harvest time approached, a throbbing pressure in the small of her back developed into a constant ache and Polly forewent her usual Sunday chapel attendance. She huddled inside, wondering how many more days it would be before she could cradle her first-born. Albert went to haul his lobster pots as the Monday dawn broke. Polly smiled when she saw him off but barely managed to disguise a grimace, as discomfort gave way to pain. Polly knew that it was time to send her sister scurrying with the message that would bring their mother. So here she was, watching the rain, trying to ignore the pains that were gripping her and hoping that her mother would reach Clovelly in time.

  When Eliza arrived, early in the afternoon, Polly had taken to her bed, with Ada hovering anxiously around her. Thunder threatened. The sky dulled and the birds ceased to sing. The wind had dropped and a bronze shimmer streaked the sea. Albert had sensed the impending storm and come ashore in good time but Eliza soon dispatched him down to his brother’s. Men were superfluous to this task. Ada was relegated to the kitchen where she was to ensure that water was boiling and towels were ready.

  Beads of sweat spotted Polly’s brow. The window was fastened, in case she should cry out and the neighbours might hear her. The room was stifling. Polly clenched her teeth, determined not to scream and gripped the knotted sheet that her mother had strung between the bed posts. The humidity consumed her. No longer could she focus on the anticipated pleasure of holding her baby. Her whole world was a wrenching agony and somewhere on the edge of consciousness, her mother’s voice was telling her to bear down. A primeval instinct invaded her unwilling body and Polly prepared to give birth to her child.

  The day had darkened into evening before a reedy wail was heard. Ada looked up. The intensity of her sister’s labours had sobered her. Perhaps she would think again about encouraging the advances of Albert’s cousin, George, if this was how bad it was. Polly seemed happy but maybe marriage and childbearing were not for everyone. Her mother came down the stairs, blood-stained sheets in one hand and a lidded bucket in the other.

  ‘’Tis a girl,’ she said, ‘and both doing well. You’d best nip down to the Bow and tell Albert. If I know men, he’ll have been unable to settle down there. Pol could do with a tidy up, you can see her and the chile when youm back.’

  Albert was transfixed by the swaddled bundle in his wife’s arms. He gently stroked his daughter’s reddened cheek. He was concerned by the mis-shappen head, barely disguised by the cloud of dark hair. Polly saw his expression and was quick to reassure him.

  ‘’Twill right in a day or so, ma says. She’s a lusty cry on her, there’s naught to worry about.’

  They sat in silence for a few moments, overawed by the untouched innocence of the child that they had created.

  ‘What will we call her?’ asked Polly. ‘Folk will expect Mary, or Eliza perhaps but I want her to have a name that’s hers alone.’

  Albert recalled how Polly loved walking amongst the flower-strewn woods above the village. ‘How about Violet?’ he said, ‘or Primrose?’

  ‘She’s so new, so clean,’ said Polly, ‘if ’tis to be a flower, it should be a white one.’

  ‘Lily then,’ suggested Albert. ‘No, Daisy, that should be it, pure and starry but not too fragile, more robust like. What do you think?’

  ‘Yes, Daisy,’ said Polly contentedly, ‘’tis just right.’

  Polly was fighting exhaustion now, it had been a hard labour, though not excessively long for a first.

  ‘She’ll grasp your finger if you let her,’ she said.

  Albert pushed his roughened finger into the tiny fist. He knew a moment of absolute, untainted love, as the miniature fingers curled round his own. Just for an instant the baby revealed the night-blue eyes of the newborn, before slipping into a doze once more. He’d felt affection for young Eadie, had been keen to protect her but nothing, nothing had prepared him for this. He vowed that Daisy should want for naught, that he would shelter this precious mite from all that might befall her; his role now was to defend his daughter from harm.

  ***

  These were the happy years, free from fear. On Daisy’s third birthday, Leonard was born. Again Polly had resolved to avoid family names. She relented with her second boy, calling him after his father but the child was always known as Bertie. Albert was content with his sons and looked forward to handing down the lore of past generations and teaching them the ways of the sea. 1903, another summer, another baby and Violet joined Daisy in the family posy of flowers. Daisy had grown into a leggy child, often roaming the Clovelly street alone, self-reliant and inscrutable. Mr Hamlyn breathed his last but the Clovelly villagers were largely untouched by his passing. Mrs Hamlyn, matriarchal and resolute, abandoned mourning and embarked on a programme of restoration of the Clovelly cottages. Polly took pride in her newly refurbished home and in her growing brood. The wider family expanded too; Fred was married now, with children of his own and two years ago, Ada had put aside her reservations and finally married George, although there was, as yet, no sign of a pregnancy for her.

  Especially in summer’s balmy days, Clovelly schoolchildren forwent the pull of fried fish and floury potatoes, in favour of bread and scrape wrapped in waxed paper. This they would take down to the rocky shore and they would spend the dinner break skimming stones, or, stripped naked, the boys would dare each other to leap off the end of the quay into the retreating waves. By some unexplained instinct they would be aware when their freedom was nearly at an end and by the time the raucous school bell rang out over the valley, they would be dres
sed and ready to hurtle up the cobbles back to the unwelcome shelter of the schoolhouse. Being first to reach the school door, held open by Miss Lott, was one of the small triumphs of childhood. They would settle on to the uncomfortable forms, ranked according to their relative abilities and pass sunny afternoons resentfully, longing to be freed from the classroom’s restraints. Leonard tolerated his lessons, giving them just enough attention to ensure that he escaped the wrath of his teacher. Bertie struggled with schoolwork but his cheerful disposition won him friends. Daisy sat with Alice, from the Red Lion, with Mary and with Bella, although Bella’s sharp tongue could make her an uncomfortable playmate. Occasionally, someone would recall that Daisy’s ma had been born a Wakely and everyone knew what they said about the Wakelys. Daisy and her brothers were largely impervious to the gypsy taunts. Those who mocked, moved on to softer targets like Abraham Tuke, who could be relied upon to take their bait. A tall, scholarly boy, with thick glasses, Abraham was the archetypal victim but the intellect that provided his persecutors with ammunition eventually led to success in a scholarship and removed him from their orbit.

  ***

  Baby Mark lay gurgling contentedly in the wooden cradle, as his siblings had before him. He had lost the wrinkles and redness of the newborn. Two girls and three boys, Polly thought, with a self-satisfied smile and she was still young yet. Maybe there would be others in the years to come; others to tug at her heartstrings and bring her such joy. How ridiculous Mrs Powell had been, motherhood was fulfilling, pleasurable, not something to be feared. During the school day, there was only Violet and now the new baby, Mark, for Polly to care for. Bertie was coming to the end of his first year under the care of Miss Hazard. Daisy was stolidly studious, winning awards for attendance and enjoying her studies as she and Leonard moved into the higher standards with Miss Lott in charge. Miss Lott was more severe than Miss Hazard but unfailingly fair and keen that her charges should be well prepared for whatever their futures might hold.

  Deep brown, fresh caught prawns jumped on the oil-cloth as Polly filled the bucket to be taken down and sold to the Red Lion. A few more catches like this and there would be enough coins in the pot on the mantleshelf for Alb to buy a better boat. He hankered for a ledge boat, such as they used at Bucks Mills, preferring it to the heavier picarooner favoured by the Clovelly men. Polly looked up at her husband.

  ‘There’s nigh on three pounds ten in the pot now,’ she said. ‘You could send word to Philip Waters, over to Appledore. By the time the boat’s ready, us’ll have enough.’

  Polly was always careful that they had sufficient money ready for rent day. Albert trusted her to ensure that they did not get in to debt, not an easy task when a fisherman’s income was so uncertain. He knew that she remembered Mrs Powell’s anguish and fretted when their savings ran low. The carefully harvested shillings in the brown jug were their nest-egg, something to fall back on in hard times.

  ‘’Twill not be for long Pol,’ he assured her. ‘The fishin’s been good of late, so I’ll soon earn enough to pay it back.’

  Polly cut a thick, uneven slice from the loaf that she held close to her waist. She wielded the knife in a sideways motion, sawing the sharp blade back and forth towards her own body but Albert was not alarmed, this was her normal habit. She smeared a generous dab of dripping across the rough surface and handed it to her husband with a smile, thankful that Alb was such a good provider. She had chosen well.

  By the time the message came to say that the boat was ready, Polly was able to give her husband a pile of florins and half crowns to take to Appledore. Albert left early to walk the fourteen miles to the ship-builders’ yard. Strapped to his back was a pair of oars, he would need those for the return journey. Polly’s father had worked for Philip Waters for years, this would be a sturdy boat that would suffice for as long as Albert was able to put out to sea. He had years left to him yet, his grandfather had hauled pots until he was in his eighties and was still hand lining until his death, a few years ago.

  True to his word, Albert proudly rowed the new boat back from Appledore and worked her for the week. The mackerel were running well and the lobster were plentiful that year. By the Saturday, Albert solemnly returned four pounds to Polly to be placed back in the jug, insurance against the unknown calamities of the future.

  ***

  No family remains untouched by pain. Albert and Polly’s pleasure, as their third son grew to toddlerhood, was tempered by the death of Albert’s father. Then there were worries over Bertie, as Miss Hazard took them to one side and explained how he was struggling, even on the lowest form of the infants’ class. Despite this, the summer of 1907 began well, school books were set aside until September and Polly’s children, along with their classmates, basked in their liberty. Visitors crowded into the Red Lion and the New Inn, guest houses hung out their “no vacancies” signs and queues formed outside the tea-shops. Leonard enjoyed the long school holiday fishing with his father, he was no longer a hindrance but old enough now to bait pots and gut fish. Even Bertie earned a few coppers holding the donkeys that waited uncomplainingly, ready to carry the next burden up the street.

  Daisy was a child of the season, delighting in the heat and the chance to discard her boots in favour of skipping over the cobbles in her bare feet. She loved the feel of the hard stones as she curled her toes round each pebble, like a bird poised for flight. Then she would take off down the hill, her bonnet bobbing on her shoulders as it slipped back from her head. That was when Polly’s heart was fullest, watching the joy of her exuberant, elfin child. No one could call Daisy pretty, her skin was too sallow and her hair was too dark but her tawny eyes and her cautious smile were arresting. A visiting photographer, attracted by her difference, persuaded Daisy to pose, fetching water from the village pump, sitting dreaming amongst the hollyhocks and smiling up at Samuel Harris, as he stood smoking his pipe outside the cottage next to Daisy’s own. As she reached her thirteenth birthday, Daisy was unable to define her feelings for Samuel but the married fisherman found the innocent schoolgirl crush mildly amusing.

  The harvest was all but over, aided by a long dry spell. The newspapers began to report record temperatures and all but the hardiest sought shade. Polly opened every window in the cottage, seeking the elusive breeze. Bertie tucked in to his usual breakfast of fried bacon but the heat suppressed the appetites of the other children. Daisy listlessly picked at her portion and Polly agreed that Leonard could leave food on his plate and head off up to the cooling woods. She persuaded Mark to take some milk-soaked bread but Violet ate nothing. The child complained of stomach ache. Polly dismissed this, blaming the heat and the cream that was on the turn.

  As the sweltering day unfolded, it became clear that Violet was unwell. The usually contented four year old grizzled and grumbled of pains in her joints and her chest. She sat at the table with her head on her folded arms. It was airless in the girls’ room under the thatch but Polly thought Violet would be better lying on top of the counterpane, perhaps with a damp flannel to cool her head. As the child struggled to her feet, her nose began to bleed copiously. Polly rushed for a towel but Violet’s smock was ruined. Polly would put it to soak in salt water but the stain would remain.

  The next days were a frenzy of fear, as Violet lay, feverish and lethargic, in the bed that she shared with Daisy. Daisy squeezed in with the boys, so that Violet was undisturbed but still the little girl whimpered and moaned. Reluctantly, they sent for Dr Ackland, whose solemnity betrayed the seriousness of Violet’s condition.

  ‘I am afraid your little girl has rheumatic fever,’ he said. ‘With careful nursing and plenty of rest you should pull her through but I have to warn you that, even if she recovers, her heart will be damaged and she will never be strong.’

  Rheumatic fever. The words were an icy brand. It was rheumatic fever that had stolen Florence Powell and left her family bereft. For the first time, Polly began to comprehend what Mrs Powell had meant when she said that having children could
bring intolerable heartache. Echoes of Margaret’s tortured accounts of her sister’s last days reverberated round the cottage in Chapel Street. In Polly’s quiet moments, unbidden visions of the lonely memorial in Bideford’s new cemetery intruded.

  The birthday that Daisy and Leonard shared went unmarked, as Polly devoted all her energy to caring for Violet. She wept when they had to crop the child’s hair to allay the fever. Daisy’s straight wisps struggled to grow past her shoulders but Violet’s thick, dark locks reached almost to her waist. There was no need to wind her hair in rags on a Saturday night, to encourage the ringlets that Sunday chapel dictated. In the end, it was Albert who wielded the heavy scissors; Polly did not have the heart for it. Unseen, she secreted a curl in the back of a drawer; a brave reminder of the sparkling, prattling little girl who now seemed lost to them.