Barefoot on the Cobbles

by Janet Few

  ‘He must keep his fluids up,’ advised the doctor as they descended the stairs. ‘If he will take broth then so much the better. Maybe a bread poultice on the chest to ease his breathing and I’ll give you some capsules to burn that may help. The next twenty four hours will be crucial.’

  Polly felt confused. Mark had got better. Surely, Nelson would recover as his brother had done. She could not think beyond this.

  The doctor seemed quite at ease, as he accepted her invitation to sit and he lowered himself on to a kitchen chair. Polly reached for the cake tin. What a good job she’d managed to make that fruit cake, even though Mark had been ill. She put the cake on a knife-scarred board and cut an uneven wedge. Thinking that this might not be right for a gentleman like the doctor, she tried again, severing a smaller portion this time. As the kettle came to the boil on the Bodley, the back door opened and Bertie and Violet came in from school.

  ‘Oh, Vi,’ said Polly. ‘I’m mighty glad youm back. Can you get the others from Mrs Abbott? She’s been baking, there may be a biscuit for you.’

  Violet headed out to do her mother’s bidding whilst Bertie shuffled his feet awkwardly, seemingly unsure of what he should do. He saw his mother frowning at him and hastily he removed his cap. The doctor looked at Bertie appraisingly.

  ‘Hello young man,’ he said. ‘You look just the age for my Scout Patrol. Have you heard of the Boy Scouts? I am sure you would enjoy the jolly times we have. We are off to camp in a week or two. What do you think of that?’

  Bertie looked desperately at his mother for guidance. How on earth should he respond to this gentleman? He might have been speaking a foreign language for all Bertie understood of the words.

  ‘Oh no, sir,’ exclaimed Polly in horror. ‘Not Bertie sir, he’s well…. He’s not the sort for being away from home, camps and the like, no, no, no it would never do for Bertie.’

  Dr Crew looked from Bertie to his mother and back again.

  ‘All lads are welcome,’ he said, ‘be they church or chapel, rich or poor. It sets the boys up for life, teaches them useful skills and fits them to serve their country should war come.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be disrespectful sir,’ Polly countered, ‘but you’d not make a soldier out of our Bertie. He leaves school soon and will help his da a bit but he was never one for schooling and such.’ She coloured as she realised that she had dared to contradict someone so learned as a doctor.

  The need for tact was slowly dawning on Dr Crew. He stood up and surreptitiously brushed the cake crumbs from his moustache with his pristine lawn handkerchief.

  ‘Thank you kindly for the tea and cake,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget to send for me again if there is any change.’

  ‘I’ll settle with you now doctor,’ said Polly reaching for the old brown jug with the broken handle that sat on the mantelshelf and held the family’s emergency fund.

  ‘There’s no need,’ replied the doctor firmly. ‘Let’s wait and see if I need to come again. I can send you a bill.’

  ***

  Polly maintained her vigil by Nelson’s bedside as the burning afternoon was eclipsed by evening shadows. Mrs Abbott had sent the girls back with a pie for the family’s meal. Albert occupied his usual chair at the head of the table and faced the six children who sat before him. He wished Polly had come down, she needed to eat. To eat and to help him decide what to say to the family. Outwardly, Polly had seemingly cheered after the visit of the doctor. It was as if she had closed her mind to any possibility but Nelson’s full recovery. Mark, with the resilience of childhood, was regaining his strength rapidly and eagerly looking forward to playing with his friends again. Polly was focussing on this and seemed to assume that Nelson’s illness would follow the same course. Albert felt he should somehow prepare the children in case …… But how to do this? More to the point, how could he get Polly to see that their youngest son was rapidly losing ground? Bertie, chomping rhythmically, seemed unaware of his father’s concerns but Leonard caught Albert’s eye and read the tension in his face.

  ‘What’s to do lad?’ Albert said desperately. He really shouldn’t be loading adult worries on to the shoulders of his sixteen-year-old son but there was no reasoning with Polly.

  ‘Shall I take the young ’uns back to Mrs Abbott, da?’ Leonard asked. The girls had all spent the last two nights with their neighbour.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think so boy and Mark too. Violet, get what your brother needs and I’ll see if Mrs Abbott can find room for him as well tonight.’

  As the children readied themselves to leave the cottage, Albert wondered if they should be allowed to say good-bye to Nelson; if this would be their last chance. Not the little girls of course, the danger of infection was too great but Violet and Mark perhaps. Compared to other villages, the inhabitants of Clovelly seemed to be fortunate when it came to sickness. It was rare that their children fell mortally ill, that school desks were left empty and names were no longer called when the register was taken at the beginning of the day. Within reach of the healthy sea air, it was unusual for a child to die; leaving as their only legacy a fresh mound of churchyard earth and maybe later a cold granite memorial, if the parents could afford it. There was a time when Albert and Polly had feared for Violet but she was nearly eleven now and no longer a worry. Had they been lucky to rear all their eight youngsters? Was their time of good fortune over? In the end, Albert decided to send the children straight to Mrs Abbott’s. Nelson looked so fearfully ill now, in a permanent doze, his skin a translucent bluish colour. If the worst happened, best they remembered him as a rosy child with a winning smile.

  There was no room for a chair beside the bed in Violet’s cramped room where Nelson lay. Polly was wedged on a rickety wooden stool between the bedstead and the door. When Albert approached, she sat up, straightening her shoulders as if bracing herself for confrontation. Albert had offered to sit with their son. He wanted to sit with their son but Polly was resistant. Albert and his feelings were superfluous. It was as if Nelson was all hers. Her responsibility. Hers to nurse. Hers to fret over. Her son.

  Albert wanted to clasp his son in his arms, in an attempt to transfer some of his own strength into that limp body but Polly was defensive, protective of her child and brooking no interference. Albert felt he could not go near. The boy was too weak to raise his head to cough now. A trickle of saliva escaped from the corner of his mouth as the terrible, terrifying sound of his attempts to draw breath rent the air. Tears prickled under Albert’s eyelids, surely there was no way back from this. Polly remained upright on her stool, staring straight ahead of her, as if she was concentrating on something distant and not on her child.

  ‘Shall I stay Pol?’ asked Albert. He ached to say, ‘I’d like to stay,’ but Polly’s demeanour was far from welcoming.

  ‘No need,’ said Polly abruptly. ‘You’ve to be fishing at first light.’

  Excluded, saddened, confused, Albert sighed and with a last glance at Nelson, he descended the narrow steps.

  ***

  Alone with her child, her baby, Polly sat as the sky darkened outside. She had taken the doctor’s advice and left the window open. The evening sounds of the street gradually gave way to silence. Still Nelson’s breathing rasped and rattled. Still the downstairs clock ticked on, a sonorous metronome marking the days, the hours and now the minutes left to Polly and her son. Polly dozed fitfully. As the first gold and pink of day tinged the sky and the dawn birdsong began, Polly was aware of a strange silence. Then she realised.

  The coughing had stopped.

  ***

  Overlaying the early morning stirrings of the villagers, came an eerie and penetrating wail. A sound that was barely human. Fleetingly, Polly wondered where the noise was coming from. Then she recognised the scream as her own. In the kitchen, Leonard, comprehending, gripped Bertie’s arm and stopped him from climbing the stairs. Albert went to his wife and held out his arms but Polly, silent now, remained rigid, unmoving. Then, as if a shutter had descended, c
utting off all the emotions of the past few days, she became practical, bustling.

  ‘There’s all to do Alb,’ she said. ‘We must tell the doctor. The authorities have to know if ’tis morbid sore throat. Then there’s the vicar and the undertaker. Can we afford a stone do you think? He needs a stone. We’ll have to send word to Daisy and to my parents and your ma. I need to get the others from Mrs Abbott. Do you think they will be allowed in school today, or will folk think we are infectious?’

  Albert let his wife run on, defeated. She seemed to need no comfort, nor be aware that comfort needed to be given. Her way of coping was to concentrate on the necessities of everyday living. It was as if, for Polly, the chasm left by the loss of Nelson was being covered, as the holes that the boys had dug on the beach were obliterated by the tide.

  ***

  Two days later, Albert prepared to lead the sombre cortège that wound its way up the cobbled street. This was his chance to take charge, to perform a final service for his son. Polly was at home, it was not done for women to be seen at a funeral. Funerals were the responsibility of the menfolk. The neighbours had drawn their curtains as a mark of respect and the donkeys had their hooves muffled, so no unseemly clatter would intrude on the solemnity of the occasion.

  The villagers stood on their doorsteps, heads bowed, as the tiny coffin, carried between Albert and Leonard, passed. They made their way to the churchyard. The sun was still relentless and the trees by the church cast a welcome shade. The sexton had done his job and the coffin was slowly lowered. Such a small hole it seemed, such a short, unblemished life, such an insignificant impression this little child had made on the world. Albert and Leonard stepped back, the black armbands that they wore marking them out as the chief mourners. Hats clasped in hands and eyes downcast, the men waited for Reverend Simkin to begin the brief burial service.

  Having declined offers of company from her neighbours, Polly sat with only her thoughts to occupy her. The younger children were again being cared for by Mrs Abbott. She knelt on the floor by the bed where Nelson had died, clutching the child’s nightshirt in her hand. She buried her nose in the rough linen fabric and inhaled, trying, somehow, to recapture the essence of her son. The unthinkable nightmare of the past week kept surfacing in her mind, however hard she tried to put it aside. Mrs Powell’s dire warnings haunted her. Why had she allowed herself to love him? Why had she loved him the best? Was this her punishment for not loving them all the same? She had nothing left of him. The only reminder would be the cross in the churchyard that Albert promised they could have. They would need to save of course but if the mackerel continued to run well, as they had in the past few weeks, that would go a good way towards it. Already, Polly was struggling to bring a picture of a healthy Nelson to her mind. All she could visualise was that poor convulsed body as he struggled for breath and always she would hear that awful, aweful breathing.

  Why hadn’t she agreed when that portrait photographer had offered to take the family’s likenesses? There were always photographers touting for business in Clovelly, hoping to find visitors in a generous mood, wanting to capture their brief holiday happinesses, so that they had something to linger over in the cold winter months. The villagers would be asked to pose whilst cameras captured scenes of the street and its inhabitants. There were several photographs of Daisy and even one of a blond baby Mark but of Nelson, nothing. The thought grew in Polly’s mind until it reached the proportions of an obsession. Yes, a portrait and soon, before anything could happen to the others.

  She closed her heart. The pain was too great, never again must she allow herself to love a child as she had loved Nelson. She pulled herself together. From now on she would be a mother. She would feed and clothe her children, she would see they were safe but love, love had died with Nelson.

  Outside, the clouds gathered. The thunder barked and the storm broke.

  7

  1915

  Leonard pulled his cap down over his thick hair, wishing that his mother was handier with the scissors when she decided that he needed a haircut. The stirring street showed its early morning face, cobbles damp and mist rising. He trudged down the hill, boot-nails striking and sparking against the stone. The village was starting to wake, cats returning from nocturnal prowling, acrid wood-smoke curling from the chimneys, milk-filled buckets squeaking as they swung on the expertly carried yoke. Fishermen were on their way to the harbour, eager to be the first to see if the recent gales had abated sufficiently for them to catch the tide. The older men, joints stiff with years at sea and the daily climb up the slope, were slower. Touching his temple and grunting a greeting to those he overtook on his downward path, Leonard’s journey progressed as usual; his daily routine circumscribed. His father and brother had gone on ahead, leaving Leonard to chop the last few logs for his ma before hurrying to join them.

  The rain of recent weeks had halted its onslaught but as daybreak gripped the bay, scudding dark clouds could be seen pitching across the pinkening sky. It was warm for January but the wicked south-westerly still swirled and stabbed through the street. There would be no fishing again today, thought Leonard. The sea, its vagaries, its beauty and its menace was the counterpoint to his life; an all pervading rhythm to which his body and his soul must respond. The idleness, the frustrations and the privations of days ashore made tempers short and bellies rumble. He did not relish another day of mending nets, repairing pots and tidying the cellar; tasks that had already been repeated and completed as the insidious storms, that had come in with the new year, persisted.

  Leonard lingered outside Granny Smale’s, inhaling deeply as the aroma of baking brought a halt to his purposeful gait. Short, sturdy and energetic but elderly now, Granny Smale hadn’t been Granny Pengilly for twenty years or more but the sign outside the shop, that swayed and creaked in the salt-laden gusts, still read “Pengilly’s Tea-Rooms”. Harry Smale had succumbed to a sudden attack of influenza just last week and there had been speculation as to how Granny Smale would manage the business alone.

  Hushed tones as they whispered, ‘She’s rising seventy you know.’

  ‘Harry was the one who did all the heavy work, what with her rheumatics.’

  ‘If she can’t get help she won’t cope when the season starts.’

  As Leonard drew level with the small panes of blemished glass his eye was drawn by a sudden movement within. Enveloped in a large, wrap-round apron, a slender girl was in the window, dusting the deep sill and readying it for the day’s display of cakes. Leonard flushed and looked away, embarrassed that the girl had caught him staring. Studiously concentrating on her dusting, the girl did not look up again but he knew that she was aware of his presence outside the window. He hadn’t paid much attention when his ma and Mrs Stanbury had spoken of a granddaughter coming out from Bideford but the sight of this unsmiling scrap brought the conversation back to mind. Surely she wasn’t old enough to have left school? Her long dark plait swung errantly forward as she reached into the far corner of the sill and the girl flicked it back behind her, exasperated.

  Now seventeen, Leonard had recently begun to view girls as an intriguing, rather than mildly irritating, segment of humanity. The girl in the shop window awakened his curiosity but there was no glimmer of romantic interest; she was a child, as his eleven year old sister, Violet, was a child, unformed and unremarkable. Leonard considered himself to be a man; he’d been working these past three years and more, helping his father with his fishing boat, The Flowers, named for Leonard’s sisters. When Bertie had finished school last summer, he had joined them. Such a small boat did not warrant three men but Leonard knew that his brother was unlikely to find a job elsewhere. Bertie could be trusted to do simple tasks under supervision but he really wasn’t the crew that anyone apart from family would choose. Leonard was vaguely aware that his father was expecting him to find other regular employment, leaving Bertie to work The Flowers with Albert.

  Leonard was not immune to the patriotic hysteria that had sent h
is unheeding contemporaries into the jaws of this pernicious war. His mother’s reaction to his tentative suggestion that he might form one of their number had rocked the cottage for days. She’d screamed, she’d wept, she’d begged, citing the ominous casualty lists in the newspapers. Inevitably, the loss of Nelson was brought up; it always was the lever that Polly used to promote her cause. The months since his death had done nothing to assuage the raw emotion, the devastation and the guilt.

  Quietly, his da had said, ‘’Taint worth the bother lad.’

  As the impetuous haste to sign up subsided, Leonard thought more cautiously about his future. Maybe it was best he bided at home for now. The adventure was already palling for those of his mates who had gone at the beginning.

  ‘Over by Christmas,’ they’d grinned, boasting of getting one over on the Hun and joking about bringing a wife back from France.

  Eager to kill, to do their bit but seemingly oblivious to the fact that to kill meant the likelihood of they themselves being killed. Christmas had come and gone but the war showed no sign of doing the same. Leonard’s da, who laboriously read the North Devon Journal each week, saving it smooth and virginal for a Sunday afternoon, said it wouldn’t be long before everyone had to go, like it or not. They said some jobs would make you safe, some of the boys on the farms maybe but the third man on a two-man boat could be spared. Joining the merchant service could save him. His mother clung to this thought with all the desperation of a woman whose family were slipping from her grasp, whose future was beyond her control.

  As more village lads left their boats to answer Kitchener’s call, Leonard was getting casual work filling in for absent crewmen but he knew that the day was coming when he would need to think seriously about finding a full-time job. For years he had sat on the quayside, listening to the old men yarning about their younger days. He had envied their memories, stories of travel and exploits that became more far-fetched with every telling but which awed the small boys whose lives had yet to unfold. Now the old men pontificated about the war, what so-and-so should or shouldn’t have done, how our brave boys would win through and wasn’t it a pity about Postman Branch, who’d been taken prisoner. Periodically, as Leonard pondered his future, the tales that he had absorbed in childhood rose up to tempt him to journey beyond the bay. He knew that his destiny lay on the intractable ocean but would it be on a merchant ship, a naval frigate, or one of the large trawlers? It was not a matter for today but soon he would need to decide. Then his experiences would form part of the warp and weft of Clovelly tradition, exclaimed over outside the Red Lion and preserved for future generations. For the present, he was reasonably content with his lot, thinking no further ahead than returning home for his lunchtime soused herring, after a morning in the cellar.