Barefoot on the Cobbles

by Janet Few

  ‘My da’s down on the quay. I need to see my da,’ Daisy crooned. It was a statement rather than a response to her mother’s question.

  Polly tried to put herself between Daisy and the door but the girl sidestepped round her.

  ‘You can’t go out like that, you’ll catch your death. Da’ll be home dreckly.’

  Frantically, Polly looked at the clock. It would be some time before the younger ones came back from school and even longer before she could expect her husband to return to aid her. Daisy was wrestling with the door latch, as if its mechanism was foreign to her. This few moments of hesitation gave Polly the chance to clutch at the folds of her daughter’s nightdress, in an attempt to forestall her. Despite her frailty, Daisy, empowered by insanity’s strength, swung round, grabbing her mother by the throat. Polly struggled for breath but Daisy’s superior height gave her an advantage.

  ‘Need to get down to the quay,’ Daisy muttered, tightening her hold on her mother.

  Polly put her hands up to her neck and tried to get her daughter to loosen her stranglehold. In desperation she hit the back of Daisy’s hand with as much force as she could muster and the girl relaxed her grip. Slumped on the floor now, Daisy was screaming eerily, uncontrollably. The front door flung open to reveal Mrs Stanbury. To Polly’s eyes she was imperious, malevolent, a bringer of retribution and peering nervously over her shoulder, was Mr Collins.

  ‘What’s to do here then?’ asked Mrs Stanbury, rushing to embrace Daisy.

  Daisy shrugged her off, finding the touch uncomfortable but at least the shrieks had given way to whimpers. Mr Collins too was fussing round Daisy, seemingly unsure of the appropriate course of action. Polly shrunk back against the stove, one hand at her bruised throat, the other steadying herself on the mantleshelf. Breathing heavily, Polly stood, wide-eyed and silent. Attention swung from Daisy to her mother.

  ‘You’ve hit her. You didn’t ought to have hit her,’ Emma Stanbury rounded on Polly, accusing, condemning, hostile.

  Mr Collins began ushering Daisy back to her bed, unmindful of the impropriety. The outline of Daisy’s emaciated body was all too evident as she clasped her nightdress closer to her. Mr Collins took hold of her bony elbow and steered her towards the staircase. Daisy, deflated, broken, gave no resistance.

  Briskly, Emma Stanbury took charge. Later, when the children clattered back from school, she shooed them off to be minded by Mrs Harris. As the autumn day darkened, Mr Collins remained upstairs, guarding Daisy as she slept. In the kitchen, Polly went through the motions of preparing tea, her mind elsewhere. She cut huge, uneven wedges from a loaf and absently began to ladle on butter and blackberry jam. All the while, Mrs Stanbury sat silently watching her, waiting like a jailor for Albert to come up from the shore. Fortunately he came alone, Bertie was off somewhere on an errand of his own.

  ‘You need to take your missus in hand,’ the words were out of Emma Stanbury’s mouth before Albert was through the door. ‘She’s been hitting that poor maid.’

  Albert looked uncertainly at Polly, who was gazing at the floor.

  ‘I wish she was dead,’ Polly whispered, ‘then all this would be finished.’

  Mrs Stanbury was shocked. When she had gathered her thoughts, she called to Mr Collins and the couple left for the neighbouring house, leaving Albert staring helplessly at his wife.

  ‘Oh, Pol,’ he said. ‘What have you done now?’

  ***

  Mr Collins sat alone in the bedroom; his wife having declined his offer to accompany her to the Reading Rooms. The evening was darkening rapidly but Collins did not stir to light the candle. Women’s voices came from next door.

  He heard Daisy’s shrill cry, ‘Don’t, don’t.’

  Surely that was a slap he could hear and a gasp, as if the girl had been winded. Galvanised, he jumped down the stairs, two at a time and rushed into the kitchen where Mrs Stanbury and her daughter, Hannah Davies, were encouraging young Stanley to lisp a nursery rhyme.

  ‘It’s that woman, next door. She’s slapping the poor girl again. For God’s sake go in to her.’

  Emma Stanbury grabbed her coat and hurried to the adjoining cottage, followed by an agitated Mr Collins. Mrs Davies hovered in the street, with a grizzling Stanley in her arms. The older woman drummed loudly on the door of number 69 and without waiting for a response, flung it open. The hinges protested as the door crashed back into the wall. Mrs Stanbury mounted the stairs, whilst Collins remained hesitatingly on the doormat. As she reached the bedroom, she took in the scene. Daisy was sat on top of the quilt, her knees bent upwards, discarded food on the floor. Polly, enraged, unaware of Mrs Stanbury’s presence, raised her hand as if to strike the girl. Emma grabbed her arm to restrain her.

  ‘I will do it,’ cried Polly, attempting to struggle free. Then, defeated now, she whispered, ‘I wish she was dead and out of pain.’

  Leaving Emma to comfort Daisy, Polly turned and hurried out of the room. Mr Collins pushed past her as she descended the stairs.

  The low hum of conversation reached Polly as she stood in the kitchen, whilst her neighbours tried to settle her damaged daughter. Some phrases were louder than others and Polly clearly heard Daisy’s pleading tone. The words cut to the core of her being.

  ‘They are killing me. They are killing me. Take me away from that cruel woman.’

  Horror-struck, the magnitude of the situation sunk home and Polly fell to her knees.

  Up in the bedroom, Mrs Stanbury was trying to disentangle herself from Daisy’s clinging arms.

  ‘I can’t take you away just now, maid,’ she said. ‘I will come in and sit with you when I can.’

  ‘And I,’ Edward Collins was standing awkwardly in the corner of the bedroom. He turned to his landlady, ‘I could pay for a nursing home,’ he said. ‘Do you think the mother would allow that?’

  Emma Stanbury looked askance at Collins as he moved to tuck the sheets in round Daisy with an uncharacteristic vigour. And what would your fine wife feel about that? She thought to herself.

  ***

  Friday morning and the never-ending nightmare continued with a visit from Dr Ackland, who descended on the family, bringing with him a determined-looking man, wearing round spectacles and an intimidating tailored suit. The doctor swiftly made the introductions.

  ‘This is the magistrate from Bideford, Mr Dennis,’ he said, indicating his companion.

  Uncomprehending, Polly looked to Albert for guidance. Why was the magistrate here?

  ‘We don’t need another doctor,’ Albert said. ‘Dr Toye’s been coming regular while Dr Kay’s ill. And,’ he continued bravely, ‘we don’t need no magistrate. We are all right as we be.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand,’ said Mr Dennis. ‘We are here at Mr Sanders’ behest. He is of the opinion that your daughter is a candidate for the asylum. I am here because I have the authority to certify her.’

  Polly stood, mesmerised, silently appealing to Albert, her only ally, to bring about some miracle, to save their daughter, to bring an end to the horror. Powerless, Albert could do none of these things. The couple waited in the kitchen whilst the two men went upstairs, the family’s deliverance or destruction within their gift.

  Finally, Polly spoke in hushed tones, ‘What’s to do Alb? Supposing she’s having one of her spells up there.’

  Despite an ambivalent attitude to God, they had known too much tragedy to believe in Him unquestioningly, a life-time of chapel-going is not easily erased.

  ‘Pray, maid,’ said Alb. ‘Pray to God and all his angels that today she be quiet because we can’t let them take her.’

  In a rare gesture of affection, Albert encircled his wife in his arms and for once, Polly did not recoil. They stood in desperation, intertwined and impotent, appealing to a deity in whom they had little faith.

  ‘Well then,’ Mr Dennis said, as he clattered down the stairs, ‘your daughter is not a candidate for the asylum.’

  Polly exhaled audibly, unaware that she
had been holding her breath.

  ‘She just needs good food. We will keep a watching brief, yes? Mr Sanders will visit regularly. We will see how things progress. But good food eh, remember that.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Polly meekly, anxious to get the men out of the door before they could change their minds.

  When they had gone, Polly turned to Albert, ‘I am just so tired,’ she said, ‘tired of trying to get the maid to eat, tired of all the busybodies poking their noses in, tired of fighting all these posh folk, who think they know best. It seems as if no sooner one lot goes away satisfied, than the next lot is on the doorstep. You mind, there’ll be someone else tomorrow.’

  Polly’s prophesy was fulfilled with the reappearance of Mr Sanders. Unlike the previous day, when Daisy had been sullen but compliant when Mr Sanders called, this time she was ranting incoherently and refusing all attempts to feed her.

  After a quick look at Daisy, the relieving officer addressed Albert and Polly, ‘She is very weak,’ he said, ‘and not at all rational. I think the asylum would be the best place for her.’

  Polly looked at Albert in alarm, surely they had already vanquished that particular demon. Albert cleared his throat, uncertain how to respond. He was well aware of the terrors that the prospect of the asylum held for Polly.

  He turned to Mr Sanders, ‘That fellow from the court yesterday, he said she weren’t right for the asylum,’ he said indignantly. ‘He said she just needed feeding. She’s quieter than she were. We can manage now. We don’t want her going in no asylum. We can look after her here.’

  Mr Sanders looked doubtful but ever mindful of his long list of calls still to be made and of the cosy fire that would be waiting for him at home when he had finished, did nothing to try to force Albert’s hand.

  Before Mr Sanders left, Dr Kay arrived. The two men greeted each other.

  ‘I’d like a word, doctor, when you’ve seen the girl,’ Sanders said.

  Albert took the opportunity to escape to the shore. Although Dr Kay was on his feet again, he was still looking drained after his illness. Daisy was one of many patients who had fallen victim to this pernicious influenza and his round was a long one. Polly accompanied him to Daisy’s room, leaving Mr Sanders waiting in the kitchen. Dr Kay offered to try to get the girl to take some food.

  Polly, nervous of disturbing Daisy, protested, ‘Leave her be doctor, for Godsakes leave her be, she hates being fed so. Let her die in peace.’

  The doctor, noting Polly’s agitation, patiently explained that regular nourishment was vital.

  ‘See if she’ll drink this milk, then try her with some solids, fish perhaps. I am sure you have plenty of that. I am going to consult with Mr Sanders downstairs whilst you see what she will take.’

  Daisy had already turned on her side, facing the wall. Polly stood, helpless, the cup of milk in her hand. Making no effort to feed Daisy, she strained to hear the conversation between the two men in the room below.

  ‘I’m not happy that the girl is being looked after satisfactorily,’ Dr Kay was saying.

  ‘Well, I’ve suggested the asylum,’ replied Mr Sanders, ‘though Dennis thought otherwise. Can she be removed from the home?’

  ‘Well she could but it will have to be local. She’s in no fit state to be moved far.’

  Polly shut the bedroom door firmly, her breath quickening. They said that eavesdroppers heard nothing to the good and it was true enough. Panic’s noose tightened, the terror was hers alone.

  ***

  Clovelly wore its party face. Despite the grey skies and churning sea, there was an air of pageantry about the village. Folk looked out bunting that had not been seen since the king’s coronation. Moth-eaten flags were unearthed from chests and dangled from window frames. The war was over. Celebration. Jubilation. Relief, even though it would be many weeks before battle-weary husbands and sons came home. No such euphoria for the family at number 69. In harsh contrast to the cheers and revelry in the street, here was torment, hopelessness and despair. Daisy was slipping out of their grasp, she was further from reality, further from safety and soon she would be further from home. Worn down by the continual pestering from her neighbours and Daisy’s own anguished pleas to get away, Polly had finally agreed that her daughter could be nursed elsewhere.

  ‘Let them take her to Mrs Harris’ then,’ she’d said, ‘get her out of my hair. They think she needs fussing over. They can do all the fussing they like over there. I’ll be glad not to have to watch her die.’

  Polly looked on submissively, as Daisy was bundled in a rough blanket and carried across the threshold in Mr Collins’ arms. It was strange, to begin with, Polly hadn’t wanted her to go, had held out against it this past week or more but now Daisy was missing from the house, all that Polly could feel was an overpowering sense of relief. It was out of her hands. The untouched milk in the cup, the uneaten food in the bowl, the sobbing and the ranting from the upstairs room; all gone. Now that there were no constant reminders that a girl lay dying, Polly could resume her life, look after her little girls, cook Albert his tea, pretend that Daisy was still away in Torquay, happy and safe.

  The local wives were diligent in their care of Daisy. Mrs Stanbury, Mrs Foley, Mrs Collins, and Mrs Bushell, all took their turn as nurses. Even Mrs Hamlyn condescended to visit, alerted by Mr Caird to the state of affairs. Mr Collins dropped in so often that Mrs Harris became quite impatient with him and asked him to call less frequently. Albert took in milk and Brand’s Essence but Polly stayed away.

  ***

  Three days later, as the lingering stars were fading in the angry pink dawn, Daisy, alone in the borrowed bed, loosened her final, fragile grip on life.

  13

  November 1918

  Albert grieved for his daughter alone. He had known that it was over, that their lives were irreparably dislocated, the instant he had opened the door to an ashen-faced Mrs Harris in the early hours of Thursday morning. Desperate sadness that his daughter was gone was tempered by a sense of guilty relief. At least now Daisy’s torment and Polly’s anguish, would be at an end. As for Polly herself, she scarcely seemed to acknowledge the news. Mrs Harris was trying to offer her stumbling condolences but Polly matter-of-factly continued to ready the younger children for school. Lily and Rosie cried a little, because they felt they should but to them, Daisy was a remote figure, a grown-up who had been long gone from the family home by the time they were old enough to take notice. Polly seemed unaware of the need for the formalities. It was Albert who summoned the undertakers and asked Dr Kay to call to sign the death certificate, Albert who walked up to Gardener’s Cottage to tell Violet and Albert who went to the post office to send a telegram to Leonard, who was on board the Hamborn somewhere in the North Sea.

  In the early afternoon, Dr Kay arrived. Mrs Harris let him in and issued a whispered warning before he ascended the stairs.

  ‘You won’t find her mother up there, doctor. Her father’s been sat with the poor maid for hours but her mother’s not come at all. There’s no tellin’ with some folk.’

  In the upper room of the Clovelly cottage, Albert was bidding farewell to his firstborn. In death, Daisy looked at peace, thin still but there was a softness to her features that Albert had not seen in past weeks. As the doctor entered the room, Albert got wearily to his feet and shook the proffered hand, accepting the gesture as an expression of silent sympathy. He felt embarrassed by his wife’s absence. What would the doctor think? Polly had shown no interest in seeing her daughter’s body; she had already vetoed Albert’s tentative suggestion that Daisy should come home to await the undertakers.

  ‘She’s gone,’ Polly had said, ‘and that’s all there is to it. What’s the use of bringing her back here? We’ll get her buried and that will be that.’

  Albert left the doctor to his work and went to wait in the kitchen with Mrs Harris. When he came downstairs, Dr Kay’s manner was oozing embarrassment.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said to the grief-stricke
n father who stood before him, ‘I am unable to sign a certificate at this time. There will need to be an inquest, under the circumstances.’

  Circumstances, thought Albert. What circumstances? She had been ill, she had died. What more was there to be said? Why couldn’t Dr Kay give them a death certificate so that they could lay Daisy to rest? It was the last remaining duty that Albert could perform for his daughter and this was being denied him. Her precious body would be violated, laid bare on the coroner’s slab like a piece of meat. It was beyond comprehension.

  ‘It will be in the next day or so,’ Dr Kay was explaining. ‘The coroner will be in touch. You and your wife will have to attend.’

  So the nightmare had not yet ended, thought Albert. There was no resolution, no peace. Reluctantly, he went to relay the news to Polly. He feared for her.

  ‘Doctor says we’ve to go to court. ’Tis not a proper court like, ’tis the coroner and a few other folk, just tidying up loose ends. Naught to fret about. It will soon be sorted, then we can have the certificate and arrange her burying.’

  For all the notice that Polly took, he might as well have remained silent.

  ***

  Albert pushed open the white, wooden gate and gestured for Polly to go in front of him. Hesitantly, she walked down the wide, mossy steps to the door of the Reading Rooms. The last of the year’s reddened leaves still clung to the Virginia Creeper that crawled round the windows of the long, low building. Although the Reading Rooms were at the top of the village, higher even than the fountain, they passed them frequently but there was no comfort in the familiar façade. Stepping inside was daunting. Albert and Polly felt out of place, oppressed by the book-lined shelves. The Reading Rooms were for folk with time on their hands, not for fishermen and their wives. The few cushioned seats had been pushed to one side. In front of the largest reading desk were three rows of wooden chairs that ranged across the full width of the room. The newly-lit fire burned in the grate but it had not yet banished the November chill. Each time the door opened, the temperature plummeted and only those who were seated closest to the fireplace felt comfortable loosening scarves and removing gloves. Superintendent Shutler stood to one side, his hands behind his back, his peaked cap on the small, oak table beside him. His presence startled Albert; surely this was not a police matter? The coroner, Mr Brown, balding and bespectacled, was seated behind the long desk. Periodically, he whispered to the fussy little clerk who sat beside him.