Barefoot on the Cobbles

by Janet Few

  This was not the last that Clovelly would hear of the suffragettes. Rumours of their escapades were on everyone’s lips. When Daisy and Bella met again that evening, Bella had another incident to report.

  ‘And then this afternoon,’ she said importantly, ‘there was a lady at the door of the Court, all dressed in black she was, claiming to be a Mrs Pond from Ilfracombe and saying she wanted to play the church organ. It was all most peculiar. Surely, if you wanted to play the organ you’d ask the vicar or the churchwarden. Why would you come disturbing Mrs Hamlyn? They say,’ went on Bella, without elaborating on who “they” were, ‘Mrs Pankhurst is supposed to be in Ilfracombe just now, you don’t suppose it could have been her do you, pretending to be Mrs Pond? How fearfully thrilling.’

  Daisy’s fingers felt for the stiff yellow paper that still lay crumpled in her apron pocket and she smiled.

  6

  May 1914

  P & A Campbell’s steamer disgorged its latest load of passengers into the waiting fishing boats. As the holidaymakers were rowed ashore, Clovelly’s drab quayside was rejuvenated by their bright colours and excited hum. Although the piercing blue skies were cloudless and the air was still, a brassy sheen over the sea threatened thunder. The old fishermen, ruminating in the shade of the Red Lion’s archway, nodded sagely and muttered that the dry spell would break before the week was out. For days now, the weather had been more like August than May, with an oppressive heat and sluggish tides. Seaweed and debris lay strewn on the beach instead of being drawn back out to sea and streams had dwindled to a trickle. In the soaring temperatures, villagers had become too lazy to lug the contents of their full privies up to the gardens to be buried and had taken to using the stream. Instead of being dispersed by the tide, effluent lingered on the beach. As the mercury rose, an unpleasant odour hovered menacingly over the village and the water from the wells was thick with sludge. The tangled mess of old nets, discarded hooks and flotsam on the shoreline was hardly attractive to the visitors but the local lads had seized the opportunity to scavenge for riches in the rubbish cast up by the half-hearted waves. The stench made noses wrinkle and eyes sting but day-trippers rarely ventured far from the quay, giving the boys a territory that they could call their own.

  Bertie, with his younger brothers Mark and Nelson, had spent the long, light evenings after school scrabbling for rusty buttons or broken bits of plate and bickering with friends over who had spotted a particular treasure first. As they ranged across the beach, using old branches to make dens above the water’s reach, their unbroken voices mingled with the raucous cries of the gulls and echoed back. Young, carefree, oblivious of the gathering storms, their thoughts were of the moment. Who had the best den? Who had cadged an illicit Woodbine from the older boys? Who had found a tanner that could be exchanged for humbugs in Ellis’ shop? None looked further than the horizon of their immediate concerns.

  It was Friday morning. Albert, accompanied by Leonard, had long since gone down to the harbour to put out to sea, grumbling that the lack of wind would leave sails limp and that they would need to row out to empty their lobster pots. Polly called the younger boys to get ready for school. The girls needed no such chiding. Violet had already helped to get her sisters dressed and was munching a slice of bread and scrape when Bertie and Nelson came downstairs, collars awry and boots unlaced.

  ‘Where’s Mark?’ asked Polly. Mark was usually the one of the three who needed no chiding.

  ‘Says he baint feeling right,’ Bertie commented as he reached for the mug of tea that Polly was proffering.

  ‘Baint feeling right?’ echoed Polly. ‘Too many of Ellis’ sweets no doubt.’

  At eight years old, Mark was growing fast, his hair was darkening and he had left the attractive stage of chubby childhood behind. The times when the female holidaymakers gushed over his fair good looks and endearing smile were waning. The visitors were still lavish with their tips if he ran errands and any pennies he was given were usually converted into a twist of sherbert or a bag of toffees. Soon though, he would be beyond the age of appeal and would have to bequeath the task of charming the tourists to five year old Nelson.

  ‘Says his head hurts and he feels hot,’ said Bertie.

  ‘We’m all hot,’ remarked Polly. ‘I’ve never known it this hot so early in the year.’

  ‘Well, he says he bain’t going to school,’ said Bertie.

  Polly began to feel concerned. Her children rarely missed school. They had all won medals for good attendance. Rosie was banging her spoon on the wooden table, adding her own marks to those made by her siblings in earlier years. Absently, Polly tested the warmth of the porridge in the bowl that was just out of Rosie’s reach. Satisfied that it had cooled sufficiently she pushed the enamel dish closer and instructed Violet to oversee Rosie’s inexpert efforts at feeding herself. The infant was fractious from a night’s teething. It really was not the weather for porridge but it was gentle on sore gums.

  Polly sighed, the day was already uncomfortably warm and lately she was finding the heat more difficult to cope with. Maybe she was starting the change she thought, breathing heavily as she climbed the stairs to the room that the four boys shared. Space was a little easier now Daisy was living-in at Gardener’s Cottage but Violet’s box room, squashed under the eaves, would not accommodate Lily and Rosie when they were too big to share a room with their parents. Perhaps they should ask Mr Caird, the agent, if there was a larger house coming vacant. It was a shame they had had to leave Chapel Street. Their old home was now part of the New Inn, providing extra rooms for visitors.

  Polly pushed open the door to the bedroom where the boys slept. It always smelled musty, as only a boys’ room can. The clothes Mark had discarded the previous night were pooled on the floor next to the bed that he shared with Nelson. Polly passed her hand across the lad’s forehead. It felt clammy to the touch.

  ‘How be ee boy?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m so cold ma,’ he said, ‘and my throat hurts something cruel.’

  ‘Cold?’ queried Polly, ‘Bertie said you was hot.’ She paused as Mark began to shiver violently. ‘I’ll get you some honey for your throat,’ she said, ‘and maybe a lemon later if Ellis’ have any in.’

  Already Polly was calculating the likely cost of lemons. The boy pulled the coverlet up to his ears as he huddled on the sagging mattress.

  ***

  Mark would normally make the most of schoolless summer days, rushing down to the quay to be with his friends but as Saturday passed into Sunday, he remained in bed. Nelson had moved across to share the larger bed with his older brothers but Mark still could not rest. Polly tried to tempt him with beef tea and fish stew but he did not want to eat, saying he could not swallow. Then the coughing began, racking his thin body and echoing through the cottage.

  ‘He’s a bit old for croup,’ Polly remarked to Albert. ‘But I think that’s what ’tis.’

  Despite his lack of food, Mark complained of feeling sick. Polly stayed home from chapel to tend the boy, in case the chamber pot needed emptying. All through Sunday afternoon Polly remained indoors whilst Violet chanted rhymes to keep the younger girls occupied and the boys went down to the quay, where Albert pottered stoically.

  Leonard popped into the kitchen to exchange a few words, enquiring after Mark’s welfare, before setting off on a jaunt of his own. Her eldest son was becoming a man, thought Polly. Soon, like Daisy, he’d be gone. Alone with her thoughts, Polly’s children came to mind one by one. Her eldest daughter was a real young lady now. Since she’d moved out, Daisy had taken to going to church with her employers, so they rarely saw her in chapel but she usually called in when she had a day off. About time she was walking out with someone, thought Polly, remembering the fondness that Daisy had had for their married neighbour, Samuel Harris. There had been no hint of a grown-up romance for Daisy. Was she perhaps holding a candle for someone? If so, she was keeping her secret well.

  Then Leonard, who was so much like his dad
but with more of a sense of adventure about him. Bertie was, well, just Bertie. Happy in his own way but he would always need a bit of looking after. Violet was so much better now, though the rheumatic fever she had had would always leave her frail. She was such a help with the little ones. Lily and Rosie were tiny yet; their personalities still unformed.

  She looked down at Mark, wondering if perhaps the fever was dropping and the coughing less frequent. Mark, wiry, determined, desperate to be like his older brothers and to disassociate himself from Nelson, whom he viewed as a baby. Mothers shouldn’t have favourites of course but Nelson was her golden boy. Polly’s brand of motherhood was gruff and practical, not demonstrative but there was something special about Nelson. He was still young enough to climb on to her lap for an embrace, his moist hand finding its way to the back of her neck in a gesture that he found comforting. Even the births of the two youngest girls had not usurped Nelson’s position in Polly’s mind as her baby.

  Monday dawned. The air was still thick and oppressive, crushing the breath from the villagers’ lungs. Wearily, Polly rose from her bed at first light to check on Mark. He hadn’t seemed to cough so much in the night. Was this because he was getting better, or a sign of something more sinister? The bottom of the bedroom door scraped on the uneven boards as Polly opened it. She resolved to get Alb to see to the hinges. Mark’s head turned on the bolster at the sound of his mother’s entrance. The light from the hallway brightened the stuffy room and Polly could see Mark’s eyelids flicker. His forehead seemed cooler and the coughing had certainly abated, could he be improving? Polly retreated quietly, not wanting to disturb the other three boys. She looked fondly at Nelson, lying crossways at the bottom of the large bed, trying to avoid his brothers’ feet. As she did so the young boy’s breathing rattled.

  Then the coughing began.

  ***

  Tuesday afternoon and Polly sat in silence with her youngest son. She could focus on nothing and no one else. It was only the two of them, she and Nelson, suspended in this stifling space. The deep, rhythmic clicking of the clock on the mantleshelf was audible throughout the house, as all the doors were open in a vain effort to cool the air. Its tones denoted the passing of time, yet this moment seemed as if it was forever. The house was uncannily quiet without the babbling of the two youngest girls. That morning, Polly had approached her neighbour, Mrs Abbott, seeking her help.

  ‘Could you take care of Lily and Rosie for me?’ Polly had asked. ‘Only I’ve had to tie Rosie to the bedstead, Lily’s not up to minding her. I can’t have her wandering into the boys’ room while they be sick and now she’s up on her feet, she could tumble down them stairs.’

  Mrs Abbott had agreed to look after the girls for a few days. Polly was thankful that Rosie was recently weaned. Only the week before, Rosie had seemed irritable when Polly proffered the breast for her evening feed. The close proximity of her mother’s flesh was uncomfortable in the sticky heat and Rosie had grizzled and struggled. Polly had wanted to persevere, aware that this was a sensation that she would probably never again experience. After all, the older children had been fed until they were close on two years old. Rosie though had shown no further interest, turning her head sharply, newly emerging teeth clenched. Then, with Mark being ill, Polly hadn’t had the strength to persist. Now it was a blessing that she did not have to worry about the baby girls.

  With Violet ensconced with her sisters at Mrs Abbott’s, they moved Nelson to the smallest bedroom, so the other boys would not disturb him. Mark was still weak but had today gone with the others to sit on Mrs Abbott’s bumpy chair in the window and play with the wooden boats that Mr Abbott had carved for his boys when they were small. Mark was keen to get back to school and was adamant that tomorrow he could manage the walk up to Wrinkleberry to join his friends. Polly thought this was unlikely but maybe by next week he’d be strong enough.

  Nelson stirred and a fit of coughing convulsed his body. His blond curls were dark with sweat and foul smelling, blood-stained mucus escaped from his nostrils. Polly held a tin mug to his lips. He managed only few sips of the brackish, warm well water before his head dropped back on his pillow.

  ‘Can you manage some broth do you think, lad?’ she asked.

  Nelson moaned softly and raised his head, attempting to sup the thick liquid from the spoon. He leant back on the pillow.

  ‘Can’t swallow nothing, ma,’ he whispered. His voice was so quiet that Polly had to bend her head to catch what he said. ‘It’s me neck. ’Tis so sore, ma. Stop it hurting ma.’ Tears squeezed from the child’s reddened eyelids.

  Fear constricted Polly’s chest in an ever-tightening band; an appalling echo of her time of anguish when Violet was so very sick. Mark had recovered in a few days. Surely, tomorrow, Nelson would begin to brighten up too. Through the night Polly dozed by her son’s bedside, wiping his face, flinching every time he wheezed and struggled for air. Again and again Polly jerked awake in panic at the sound of his coughing. More terrifying still, were the occasions when she roused to the night’s silence and had to put her ear to Nelson’s chest, to seek a reassuring beat. The boy’s heart seemed to race and to Polly, it’s thudding threatened to drown the inexorable sound of the clock, ticking away each moment.

  Next morning, Nelson’s symptoms intensified and it was as if every breath required an insurmountable effort.

  ‘Alb, do we have enough money for the doctor?’ Polly asked. ‘Him’s getting real bad. Could we ask the chapel, or maybe the Rechabites, or even Mrs Hamlyn for help?’

  Albert could tell Polly was desperate. Not since Violet’s illness had she suggested calling in a doctor.

  ‘There’s not many lobsters about but the mackerel’s run well this week, Pol. There’s enough in the pot if the chile needs a doctor.’

  Doctor Crew had only established his practice covering Hartland and Clovelly a year or so ago. His arrival had caused quite a stir, as he had brought with him a young wife. To the astonishment of the neighbourhood, it seemed that she too was a doctor. Folk had gradually overcome their initial reluctance to call upon their services, although, truth be told, they still hoped it would be Mr Dr Crew and not his wife who arrived on their doorstep in response to a summons.

  Dr Crew was a man in his twenties with a hearty manner and a neat moustache. Only the previous month Polly had had occasion to speak to him when he came to help Will Oke who’d gone over the cliffs when they were cutting down the trees behind the New Inn. The old man, who was not too steady on his feet, had been keen to help throw the rubbish away over the cliffside, to save it being taken up or down the street. Best thing would have been to burn it, thought Polly but they hadn’t and Will had paid the price. She’d watched as he was carried back to his home on the square and Dr Crew had approached Polly, asking her to keep an eye on Mrs Oke, who seemed bewildered. Polly had gone along to the Oke’s cottage whilst Dr Crew was still there. She had found him chatting to Mrs Oke in an amicable manner, not like a doctor at all. He was asking the old lady about the chickens that she kept in the back yard. Polly had heard the gossip that spoke of the doctor’s eccentric interest in chickens. It was said he kept dozens of them at his home in Hartland. Lots of fancy breeds and such. That seemed strange too for a doctor. Will Oke had died, despite the ministrations of Dr Crew. Sending for the doctor didn’t always mean that people recovered. Polly pushed that thought aside.

  ***

  It was mid-afternoon when Dr Crew breezed into Polly’s cottage after a perfunctory knock.

  ‘Where’s the patient then?’ he asked.

  Polly resisted the temptation to curtsey. Despite working for the Pine-Coffins and then the Powells, she really wasn’t comfortable with posh folk, not when they encroached on her own domain. Whatever they said about Dr Crew being friendly, he was still not one of them. He belonged to a different world, like the minister, like Mrs Hamlyn and even Mr Caird. Polly wished she’d had time to give the tiles another mop but Dr Crew didn’t seem to be taking any notic
e of the state of the floor.

  ‘Will you take a cup of tea doctor?’ Polly enquired. They so rarely sent for the doctor that she wasn’t sure what was expected of her.

  ‘Perhaps later,’ he replied, ‘first I will see the youngster.’

  Although she was usually taciturn, something about the doctor’s manner made Polly feel obliged to keep the conversation going.

  ‘Is your horse being looked after at the top?’ she asked.

  The doctor smiled. ‘No,’ he said gently, as he ascended the narrow stairs behind Polly, ‘I have a motor and I have parked it where the cobbles begin.’

  Despite the hot and humid day, Polly had drawn the heavy curtain and closed the tiny window. She had even stuffed the gaps round the frame with old rags, in the belief that Nelson needed to sweat out his fever and that the air would be bad for him. The child moaned and rolled to turn his head away from the door, as if the light hurt his eyes. The room smelt stale and Polly hastily stooped to remove the chamber pot, as she had not emptied it since Nelson vomited last.

  ‘’Tis the morbid sore throat doctor, isn’t it,’ said Polly, hardly daring to voice her deepest fears. ‘I don’t know what to do. I thought he’d get well like his brother but he just gets worse. How’d he get it doctor? Was it something I’ve done?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that now,’ said the doctor kindly. ‘I’ll just take a look at the lad.’ His smile at the anxious mother belied the doctor’s grim thoughts. It was not for nothing that diphtheria was known as the strangling angel.

  Dr Crew examined the boy gently and competently, then suggested letting light and air into the room. Polly pulled back the curtain and struggled with the catch. It was so close outside in the afternoon sun that opening the window made little difference to the temperature inside.