Barefoot on the Cobbles

by Janet Few

  Polly looked to Albert for guidance but he was as ignorant of the procedure as she. They stood uncomfortably at the back of the room. Eventually, the clerk ushered them to two vacant chairs in the centre of the front row. Albert glanced around, taking in the scene. Mrs Stanbury was there and Dr Kay and that interfering Collins from next-door. Why was he here? What was it to do with him? Surely all this was only about getting the certificate, so that Daisy could be decently buried.

  The proceedings began. Mr Brown cleared his throat, motioning to Albert to step forward. Albert stood submissively, twisting the brim of his battered trilby hat round and round in his hands.

  Mr Brown addressed him, ‘Would you please explain the circumstances of your daughter’s death.’

  Albert hesitated, formulating sentences in his mind, reluctant to relive the horrors of the past weeks, uncertain where the story should begin.

  Mr Brown looked at him expectantly, ‘Come on man, where was she living when she became unwell?’

  ‘She’d been working in Torquay nigh on a year,’ Albert muttered.

  The coroner interrupted, ‘Could you speak up, so that we can all hear.’

  Albert continued, imperceptibly louder, ‘She’d been ill a week in her mistress’s house. Then they put her in the workhouse. I fetched her home on the 25th of October.’

  ‘And how did she seem?’

  ‘She was quiet until we got to Barnstaple but then I had a job to hold her on the train.’

  ‘What medical attention did she receive once she was at home?’ Mr Brown asked.

  Albert replied, ‘Dr Kay is our doctor but he was ill, so Dr Toye came out at first but later Dr Kay and Dr Ackland both came.’

  ‘What advice did they give you?’

  ‘To feed her up, milk, fish, nourishing fare.’

  ‘And did you do as you were advised?’

  Albert glanced nervously at Polly before responding, ‘We tried feeding her sir, both me and her mother. Sometimes she’d take it readily enough but then there were days when she’d just lie there, refuse to open her mouth. She could be very violent to us, we couldn’t keep her in her bed.’

  ‘But she was removed from your home was she not?’

  ‘Yes sir, on the 11th of November it was, the day we got news that the war was over. She went to our neighbour, Mrs Harris.’

  Mr Brown paused as the clerk turned a page in the ledger, ‘And why was that?’

  ‘I don’t know who ordered it but the neighbours organised it.’

  ‘Why did you not send her to the workhouse infirmary in Bideford if she was so sick?’

  ‘I didn’t know she could have gone to the workhouse infirmary, sir. I spoke to Mr Sanders the relieving officer. I wanted him to take her into his nursing home but he wouldn’t. He said he didn’t take mental cases, so that was that.’

  Mr Brown’s questioning continued, ‘Did Mr Sanders not suggest taking her to the workhouse?’

  ‘I didn’t hear him say anything about that, sir. He knew how sick she were. He came to see her when she was proper bad. I told him she’d tried to get out of the window. He niver said about the workhouse.’

  ‘And did you secure the windows?’

  ‘Yes, I did but then the silly maid knocked out a pane of glass.’

  ‘Do you consider that your daughter received proper care?’

  Albert’s voice cracked as he answered, ‘We done our best sir, us and the neighbours that came in to help. We all tried to feed her, we couldn’t do no more for her.’

  Mr Brown put his hands on the arms of the wooden chair and raising himself slightly from the seat, he leaned forward towards Albert saying, deliberately, ‘I want you to think very carefully before you answer. This is a very serious accusation. It is alleged that your wife ill-treated your daughter. What have you to say about this?’

  Sweating now, Albert replied, ‘Not when I was there. I niver saw it.’

  ‘Did you know about this accusation?’

  ‘There was a fuss with some of the neighbours. I was out to sea but they did say summat about them thinking she’d been ill-used. I heard about it from Mrs Stanbury when I came in from fishing. But when a poor maid is so mazed that she grabs her mother by the throat, then it is time to smack her. Mr Sanders himself had trouble trying to get her upstairs on one occasion. He seed how she be.’

  Mr Brown’s questioning continued, remorselessly, ‘And how was your wife with the deceased?’

  Albert’s glance rested on Polly, who was sat in front of the desk, next to the chair that he had vacated, her gaze fixed on the storm-darkened November sky. She was watching the wheeling seagulls that were visible above the net curtains that screened the lower half of the small windows. It was as if she was in some far-away place where the coroner’s words could not reach her.

  Finally Albert spoke, desperation in his voice, ‘She did all she could to keep her clean and comfortable, sir.’

  ‘And did you hear your daughter cry out when her mother was attending her?’

  Albert coughed, nervously, ‘She did scream a time or two when we were trying to see to her; we had to call Mrs Stanbury in to help hold her.’

  ‘Seeing the condition of your daughter, why did you not get her removed to a place where she could be restrained and properly looked after?’ The coroner’s tone was neutral but Albert sensed menace in the words.

  ‘She did seem like she was getting a bit quieter. We didn’t want no truck with the asylum. Not for her.’

  Polly stared at the fiercely blazing fire; a log fell, sending sparks skyward. She knew Alb had been speaking but the words had washed over her, the blur of sounds failing to form coherent phrases. She looked at Albert. Inconsequential thoughts filled her head. She found herself wondering when her husband’s hair had gone so very grey, when he had ceased to be the young fisherman she had first been attracted to at the temperance meeting all those years ago. Her name was called twice before she realised that she was being addressed. She rose to her feet, bewildered. Slowly, mechanically, her thoughts elsewhere, Polly answered the coroner’s questions about Daisy’s time in Torquay. Didn’t this man know how hard it was to watch your child slowly dying? Did he not understand how Daisy had been? Surely he should have been told that Daisy had rejected all her mother’s efforts and violently too.

  ‘She ill-used me sir, for all I tried to help, she ill-used me. I have six other children to see to but she lacked nothing that money could buy. Sometimes she took food, then other times she would clench her teeth and scream.’

  ‘Now,’ said Mr Brown firmly, ‘we come to the matter of the ill-treatment.’

  For the first time, Polly seemed to realise that the proceedings might be more than a formality. Heat swept through her body, her face flushed and she was left perspiring and breathless.

  The coroner went inexorably on, ‘I caution you to answer honestly,’ he said, peering at Polly over the top of his spectacles. ‘Anything that you tell us may form evidence in a magistrates’ court.’

  Polly was gabbling now. It was as if she had reasoned that the speed of her words would obscure their meaning, ‘In all her life sir I only struck her the once. I was desperate sir. I couldn’t hold her on my own. Her father was at sea and she said she was going down to the quay. Well I couldn’t have that sir, not the way she was, not in her night clothes and all. I didn’t know how to stop her sir. Not by myself. So I did strike her, just that once. She had her hand to my throat sir. All I did was strike the back of her hand to get her to release me.’

  The clerk’s frenzied scribbling seared the silence. Then the fire hissed as a damp, mossy log was thrown on to the flames. Polly looked round frantically, she was feeling dizzy now. If only she could have a sip of the water that stood in the cut-glass decanter on the coroner’s desk but she dared not ask for a cooling drink. Seconds ticked by, unfolding like hours, as Polly stood exposed and disparaged.

  Oblivious of Polly’s discomfiture, Mr Brown resumed his questioning, ‘And
do you remember your neighbour, Mrs Stanbury, coming in at that point?’

  ‘Yes sir. I told her then the girl was violent, that I was obliged to do something.’

  ‘And did your daughter complain to Mrs Stanbury about your treatment of her?’

  ‘Not in my presence sir. There was naught to complain of. I deny ill-treating her.’

  Relentlessly, the questioning continued, ‘Did you refuse to let Mr Collins come in and give her eggs and milk?’

  Polly looked angrily at Mr Collins but gave her answer faintly, ‘No. He did come in a time or two and feed her. Mrs Stanbury was the person who gave food to her mostly. I didn’t refuse anyone giving her food.’

  ‘Did you express yourself that you wished she was dead?’

  ‘No. I did say how thankful I should be to God, if He were to take her from her suffering.’

  Mr Brown consulted the papers in front of him, running his fingers under a line of writing, ‘Did you say. “What is the use of giving food to a dying girl. She is dying, best let her die”?’

  ‘No. I never used that expression. I never gave up feeding her,’ said Polly firmly, deluded self-conviction blurring her memory.

  ‘And when your daughter was removed to a neighbour’s house, did you object?’

  ‘I said naught. Folk said she should go, so she went. I thought she would get more attention there. ’Twas better than the asylum.’

  ‘That will be all for now,’ said Mr Brown, dismissively.

  Polly sunk in her chair, her face grey and strained, no longer buoyed by adrenalin. When she refocussed on what was going on around her, Dr Kay was speaking, saying that Daisy was out of her mind. Well, that was true enough, thought Polly.

  ‘She died from her mental condition and want of food,’ Dr Kay stated, ‘I told the mother to feed her hourly but the next day it did not appear that she had been fed.’

  ‘I tried,’ Polly cried out, ‘I tried to do what the doctor said.’

  The coroner ignored the interruption.

  ‘In your professional opinion, Dr Kay, has there been such neglect as to accelerate the death?’

  Albert gasped. Surely they could not think that it was their fault. He had never anticipated this. Dr Kay had said the inquest was for form’s sake, the doctor would have explained to the coroner that they had done nothing wrong. Wouldn’t he? The clock ticked loudly through the oppressive silence. It seemed like an eternity before the doctor replied.

  His words hit like a storm, ‘Yes. I should say so.’

  In the hushed room, Mr Collins could be heard exhaling triumphantly.

  Mr Brown tapped the papers on the desk into a neat pile, ‘I fear I shall have to adjourn this inquest,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘We need to gather more evidence. We will set the date for Wednesday next and we will empanel a jury.’

  ***

  The days before the inquest reconvened passed in a haze for Albert and for Polly; their lives suspended in an unfathomable limbo between an unspeakable past and an uncertain future. Albert forewent the height of the herring season and remained at home, unwilling to run the gamut of the gossiping neighbours. Bertie failed to appreciate the enormity of the situation and was unsettled away from the familiarity of the fishing boat. At least though, thought Albert, Violet and Leonard were away working, safe from the accusatory stares, the turned backs and the conversations that halted abruptly when they passed. He had debated keeping the younger children home from school but reasoned that Mark was big enough to take care of himself. Surely, the little girls were too small to understand any teasing that they might encounter, as harsh children taunted with phrases they’d heard from their parents. It was good to have them out of the house all day, their presence only served to fuel Polly’s dark mood. It seemed that he was right about Mark. The boy returned home from school on Monday with a bloody nose and bruised knuckles, suggesting that he had dealt with the bullies in his own way.

  Perfunctorily, Polly paid lip-service to her normal routine. She put meals in front of the family but ate little herself. Although she dreaded the empty expanse of each sleepless night, instead of relief, dawn brought a renewed struggle to rise from her bed and face the day. She embarked on a cleaning regime of an intensity better suited to spring. The neighbours shook their heads when they saw her hanging rugs over the line and beating them vigorously, unconscious of the drizzle. Anything to keep her mind occupied, to keep the demons at bay, to stop the doctor’s accusations from crushing her.

  ***

  The inquest resumed on Wednesday morning in the club room of the Red Lion, the space in the Reading Rooms being inadequate for a jury and additional witnesses. Albert and Polly walked down the street to the quay, their steps dragging and their anxiety unquelled. As they entered the crowded room, heads turned and murmurings ceased. The jury were seated together on one side, uncomfortable in their role as adjudicators. Damp coats gently steamed in the heat of the fire and raindrops trickled from furled umbrellas on to the polished floor. The claustrophobic press of too many bodies in a confined space made Polly feel light-headed. Why were all these people here? Why were they all looking at her? This time it was not only Mr Brown who sat in judgement but a jury of their peers, folk who were known to them, friends and neighbours. Polly looked at the fifteen men who held the power to free her, or to condemn. At their head was Mr Cruse, no longer the farmer up the road, someone she had known for decades but now formidable in his role as foreman of the jury that was to decide her fate. She could not return his half-smile of acknowledgement.

  Mr Brown called the room to order. After much coughing and scuffling, an uneasy silence fell. The jury were sworn in and the evidence from the previous Saturday was summarised for their benefit. It seemed to Albert that, at second hearing, every phrase took on ominous overtones. The examination of the witnesses began. Mrs Stanbury studiously avoided Polly’s eye as she was invited to stand and walk to the front of the room. The two women had not spoken since Daisy’s death. Too much had passed between them, eroding years of guarded neighbourliness.

  ‘Mrs Stanbury, in your own words, please tell the jury about the alleged ill-treatment of the deceased,’ said Mr Brown.

  ‘She was not being properly fed. I went to take her beef tea but her mother wouldn’t have me there, said we was punishing the girl by feeding her. Then, on another occasion, her husband was there that time, the mother took the cup away from me and said she wouldn’t have anyone in the house feeding her daughter that day. She said, “What’s the use of feeding a dying girl?”.’

  Albert interposed, heatedly, ‘I was there. She didn’t say that.’

  ‘Please continue Mrs Stanbury,’ said Mr Brown, frowning at Albert.

  Albert dropped, helplessly, back in his chair, his face reddening. Polly sat stiffly at his side.

  Mrs Stanbury bridled, shooting an indignant glance in Albert’s direction, ‘The girl would beg me to take her away. She would say, “They are killing me”. There were red marks on her thigh. Mrs Hamlyn wanted her moved where she could be looked after, so we arranged for her to go to Mrs Harris’ house. I helped to feed her when she was there. She had to be fed, she was too weak to take food herself by then. Sometimes it would take three-quarters of an hour to get anything down her, other times she would take small amounts readily.’

  ‘And what of her demeanour?’ queried Mr Brown.

  ‘Sometimes she was excitable.’

  ‘Was she violent?’

  ‘No. She was never violent.’

  On and on went the questions. To Polly’s tormented mind, the images that Mrs Stanbury’s statement conjured up sounded unfamiliar, as if the woman was talking of another girl, another time. Then it was the turn of Mr Sanders to add yet more weight to the evidence that was amassing against Polly.

  ‘How did you find the girl when you visited the family?’ Mr Brown asked the relieving officer.

  ‘I found her restless and pre-occupied. She would not respond when spoken to. They did ask
if she could be taken to my wife’s nursing home but I explained that that was not appropriate.’

  ‘And do you think she was a fit patient for a workhouse infirmary?’

  ‘Not ours,’ said Mr Sanders, firmly, ‘because there was no accommodation.’

  ‘In your opinion though, was it right, her being left at home?’

  ‘Well, if she was properly looked after,’ Mr Sanders appeared to be on the defensive. ‘I gave instructions accordingly and suggested that the family got a nurse in. When I returned on November the 2nd I said she would need to be removed to the asylum. The parents protested. They said they did not want her taken away.’

  At this, Mr Sanders looked disapprovingly at Albert and Polly who sat in their adjacent chairs, not touching, not moving, not acknowledging each other’s presence.

  ‘Was the girl being fed properly at this time?’

  ‘The mother said that the girl would not take food from her as she would from other people,’ Mr Sanders answered.

  ‘At that time,’ persisted the coroner, ‘did you, or did you not, think it a proper case for the asylum?’

  ‘Yes, if she was not being looked after, although by then she was more settled. I got the doctor to look at her and Mr Dennis, the magistrate but she was not certified insane.’

  ‘Was she, as her father suggests, violent?’

  Mr Sanders’ response echoed round the small room, ‘No. She was not.’