by Janet Few
There was a gasp of horror. It was too much for Albert. All this and now they were saying he was a liar. ‘My evidence was correct,’ he cried despairingly but his words evaporated like the puddles on the floor by the fire.
Mr Sanders resumed his seat and Mr Collins was called upon to take his place.
‘You are Mr Edward Laurence Collins?’ asked the coroner, rhetorically. ‘Please state your occupation and residence.’
‘I am a consulting engineer, currently residing in Independent Street, Clovelly.’
‘And what is your connection to the deceased?’
Mr Collins was giving his responses rapidly, his words tripping over each other. ‘I have resided next door to the family of the deceased for the past eighteen months. My bedroom adjoins that in which the girl was nursed.’
‘Tell us of your concerns for the girl.’
‘The partition walls are very thin. I suffer from insomnia and I was awake during the night following the girl’s arrival home. The girl was quite quiet but I could hear her father talking to her. Next morning, I was awoken by a commotion and I saw her mother pass below my window at about 7.30am. I heard her and her father talking rather excitedly. I heard the mother telling neighbours that the girl had been very agitated and violent all night. A few days later, I heard a conversation between the defendants. They were grumbling that people could not do what they liked with their own child without interference from strangers. I believe that I was meant to overhear and that they were referring to a strong conversation I had had with the mother, reprimanding her for thrashing the girl the previous night.’
Mr Collins paused to draw breath and Mr Brown interjected, ‘Please tell us, in your own words, about the incident when the defendant allegedly thrashed her daughter.’
When had a little tap become a thrashing? wondered Albert.
Mr Collins went on, swiftly, ‘I heard an uproar in the girl’s bedroom and the sound of blows being struck. The girl called out “Don’t. Don’t.” The cries stopped suddenly, as if she had been prevented from making a noise.’
‘And whom was the girl addressing?’
Mr Collins, flustered now, hands flapping and face scarlet, replied, ‘It is my belief that she was speaking to her mother. I could hear the mother speaking.’
‘What action did you take?’
‘I fetched Mrs Stanbury, in whose house I am lodging and her daughter, Mrs Davies and we went next door. The door was locked and we banged on the door waiting to be admitted. I went straight up to see the victim but I could hear Mrs Stanbury saying to the defendant, “You shall not strike her”.’
Imperceptibly, Daisy was no longer just the deceased, she had assumed the victim’s role.
Mr Brown, half-heartedly, attempted to re-establish impartiality, ‘How did you find the deceased?’
‘She was sobbing piteously. She begged Mrs Stanbury not to leave her at the mercy of her mother. I remonstrated with the mother and she said she had done it, she had hit her daughter but would not do so again. The father was called in and Mr Sanders the relieving officer. The father said the girl had been very violent and Mr Sanders himself said he was obliged to carry the girl back indoors, as she had broken away. The father was very aggrieved that I had spoken out. He stormed out of the house saying those who wanted the girl to have so much fuss and attention had better pay for it as he could not.’
‘And what course of action did you take?’
Self-righteous now, Collins said, ‘I tried to act in the girl’s interest. I saw Mrs Hamlyn about the matter. I urged her to use her influence, which indeed she did and rightly so.’
Others were called to give their versions of the events, accounts that Polly barely recognised. Polly wondered how her own recollections could be so unlike the evidence that she was hearing from the lips of her neighbours. The morning was interminable. Albert was slumped forward now, his head in his hands. Reality was suspended.
***
The coroner began reviewing the evidence, clarifying matters for the jury, ‘It is my opinion,’ he said, ‘that the magistrate was correct in not certifying her insane.’
‘What is clear in this unfortunate case is that it is evident that some skilled person was required to nurse the girl and properly feed her. The doctor,’ he turned to acknowledge Dr Kay, ‘has said that her death was accelerated by neglect and want of food and that he thought that she must have been underfed for some time. You must consider if Mr Sanders did all he could to prevent this.’
Sanders huffed indignantly and sat upright in his chair.
Mr Brown was still speaking, ‘The mother is alleged to have remarked, “What is the use of giving food to a dying girl?”.’
‘My wife denied that!’ cried Albert.
‘You must not interrupt,’ said Mr Brown, ‘or I will hold you in contempt of court. The alleged remark,’ he continued, firmly, ‘was a most extraordinary one. If everyone adopted that attitude towards anyone likely to die, I am afraid that I should be occupied all day long. I have examined the body, which was terribly emaciated, with the bones protruding through the skin.’
Albert flinched, recalling that painfully thin body, with the essence of Daisy reduced to a fleeting echo.
The coroner continued, ‘By the intervention of Mrs Hamlyn and other kind people, the girl was removed to a place where she could get rest and quiet but I am afraid it was, by then, too late and she got weaker and died.’
Turning to the jury, Mr Brown said, ‘It is your duty to determine the cause of this unfortunate young woman’s death and to ascertain if her end was hastened by neglect. You must reach a verdict upon which at least twelve of you are agreed.’
Solemnly, the men filed out to consider the evidence that had been put before them.
***
Twenty minutes later, the jury resumed their seats, their deliberations over.
Mr Brown addressed the foreman, ‘What was the cause of death of this young woman?’
Mr Cruse stood to present the findings of the jury, ‘It is our belief that she died from weakness, due to insanity and want of adequate nourishment.’
‘Was her death accelerated by the neglect of her mother and her failure to provide her with sufficient food?’
Mr Cruse looked regretfully at Polly, ‘Yes. It was.’
‘And did the mother ill-treat her daughter, in such a manner as to accelerate her death?’
Mr Cruse replied emphatically, ‘No. She did not.’
Mr Brown pressed on with the questioning, ‘Did the father know the mother neglected the deceased and failed to give her proper nourishment and to care for her sufficiently?’
Mr Cruse’s single word reply, resounded like a death knell, ‘Yes.’
‘And is it your belief that the mother prevented Mrs Stanbury from nursing the deceased?’
‘Yes, on one occasion.’
‘Do you find that Mr Sanders was neglectful in his duties in not removing the girl from her parents’ house, or in not providing a responsible person to care for her?’
‘We do believe that when he saw her condition, he should have taken some action to get the girl removed.’
Mr Sanders interjected, ‘I took all the steps that I could in the matter. There is no provision for lunatics at the workhouse and the girl was not destitute.’ His voice rose several tones in his annoyance.
Mr Brown turned to address Mr Sanders, ‘The jury consider that she was helpless, whether her parents were wealthy or not. It was your duty as relieving officer, to see that she was being cared for.’
Mr Sanders drew himself up to his full height, a personification of righteous indignation, ‘I reported the matter to the magistrates at the earliest convenience.’
Albert was glad that the attention had swung away from them but the reprieve was short-lived.
Mr Brown was speaking again, ‘As coroner, it is my painful duty to say that this verdict amounts to one of manslaughter against the mother and against the father, in a les
ser degree. I therefore issue warrants of arrest against them both.’ He stood and rapped a polished gavel on the desk. ‘Bail is allowed.’
Uncomprehending, Polly and Albert gazed at each other. A rumble of voices rose up around them. Mr Caird stepped forward. He must have been a latecomer, as they had not been aware of his presence before the jury retired to deliberate. He took two white five-pound notes from his inside pocket and laid them on the desk in front of the coroner.
‘There’s your surety,’ he said.
The press of people parted, allowing the bewildered couple to make their way out of the room and return home. They climbed the hill in silence, oblivious to the implications of the coroner’s verdict.
***
Two days after the turmoil and confusion of the inquest, Mr Sanders called, just as Albert was about to head down to the quay. This time, Sanders’ visit was in his capacity as registrar. Albert took the thick, cream envelope held out by Mr Sanders. It was unsealed. He lifted the flap and extracted the contents. Hands shaking slightly, he unfolded the single sheet and stared at the certificate that lay across his palm. The sharp creases stood out, maiming the paper’s surface. Albert rubbed his scarred thumb gently across his daughter’s name. The writing was cramped and the thick black ink stark against the flimsy background. The purple tinge to the paper shrieked of loss. Tears touched Albert’s eyes as he read the cause of death, “Asthenia due to insanity and want of sufficient food” and then, in darker lettering, as if the writer had pressed more firmly with the spluttering pen, the single word “Manslaughter”. Despite everything that had happened, until now, it had somehow been possible to shut out the awfulness of the past few weeks, to believe for fleeting seconds that Daisy was simply away working and that they would see her again. Standing there, with the death certificate in his hand, the finality hit home. Daisy was gone, all her bright promise extinguished. Was this piece of paper to be the only reminder of his daughter, her only testament, her only legacy?
He called to his wife, ‘Pol, ’tis Mr Sanders. He’s brought the certificate. It’s over. We can bury the maid.’
And bury the maid they did, or rather Albert did, laying her in the frozen November earth next to her brother. Nelson’s passing seemed to belong to another time. It wasn’t that he was forgotten exactly but it was hard now to recall his features, or his voice, as he called after his older brothers in play. Lichen was already forming on the cross that marked the boy’s last resting place. As the rain intensified, Daisy was lowered into the shallow grave that had been hollowed out in the ground by her brother’s memorial. Albert stepped forward and a handful of reddish earth rattled on the top of the plain deal coffin. Circled behind him were a scattering of villagers, amongst them Mr Pengilly, Oscar Abbott, Mr Tuke and Mr Caird, representing the estate. Most had stayed away, confused by the revelations of the inquest and unsure how to approach the grieving family. Mr Collins was absent; Albert had made it clear that he was not welcome, that his interference had done enough.
Braving the steady drizzle, a robin perched on the overhanging bough of the ancient yew tree, its bright breast enlivening the endless grey. The bird’s liquid carolling formed an incongruous accompaniment to the vicar’s intonations. The sexton did his melancholic work and a pitiful mound of sodden earth marred the virgin soil.
14
New Year’s Day 1919
Throughout the confusion of the days that followed Daisy’s death, Polly focussed on the imminent return of her eldest son. To have Leonard back would be a symbol of normality, an indication that life held hope. Christmas came and went, with no news that the Hamborn had docked after eight tumultuous, war-torn months at sea. Alb had tried to convince Polly that all must be well, that there was peace now and Leonard would be home but she needed to see her son, to know for herself that he was safe. It was Leonard’s first voyage under Captain Jenn and Polly was glad that there were several Clovelly men on the Hamborn; men who could support Leonard, as those who were left behind sustained each other when times were bad. Catherine Bate’s husband Tommy was part of the crew, a sober chap, only five years Leonard’s senior but already taking command when Captain Jenn was ashore. Will Harding was another, known to Leonard from childhood.
Waiting was the lot of the seaman’s family. So, with her neighbours, Polly assumed a stoical patience, yet she was aware of an illogical rising panic that intensified with each passing day. She did not usually feel like this when she was expecting the ship to dock; she was a fisherman’s wife, she had trained herself to quell her anxiety, had to really. The only way the women could survive was to push all thoughts of the perils and uncertainties of the sea to one side, to disregard their fears and close their minds to the dangers.
Finally the news came, sent by telegram to Mrs Jenn and reverberating up and down the echoing street until all the watchers, the waiters, were told.
‘Them be on their way, Mrs Harding,’ called Mrs Bate, as they encountered each other outside Ellis’ shop, smiling, anticipating, relieved.
The Hamborn had docked up country and the Clovelly men would be heading for home when the last few onboard tasks were complete. The gossip speculated on how soon that would be, on when their menfolk might alight from the station at Bideford and commence the last leg of their journey.
It was New Year’s Eve when Captain Jenn sent word for Eli to bring out his cart and collect the Clovelly crew members from the train. Weary and apprehensive, Leonard hauled his kit bag on to the cart and hunched down next to Will Harding, an experienced sailor who looked older than his thirty four years, with weather-hewn face and prematurely balding pate hidden under a cap. Will was a family man, eager to get back to his pretty wife, his near-grown son Billy and three little girls. He was unusually talkative, proud that his Billy would soon be going to sea too. Leonard grunted in what he hoped was a fitting manner but he longed to be alone with his thoughts.
They’d telegraphed of course, with the awful news about Daisy. Captain Jenn had told him, kindly but gruff, so he was spared the embarrassment of his parents trying to explain; that was a relief. Leonard was uncertain how he should feel. Like most of his contemporaries he was used to the tragedies of war, was numb to bereavement, hardened even. He knew he should be, well, sad perhaps. He should at least feel something. He had been closer to Daisy than to his other sisters. They were the nearest in age, they even shared a birthday. He hadn’t really expected to spend time with Daisy when he came on leave. They were both adults now, ploughing their own furrow, as his da said. He hadn’t seen Daisy for nearly a year. She had left to work down south and he had only had two weeks at home since the previous January. To know she wasn’t there, wasn’t anywhere, that he would never see her again was different. Final. Confusing. Leonard was dreading seeing his parents. How should he react? He was now the eldest child in the family; the responsibility was burdensome. It was his ma he worried about. He remembered how she had been after they’d lost Nelson, morose and moody, lurching from screaming and sobbing to seeming indifference.
The cart dropped them at Head the Hill, the furthest into the village that wheeled transport could venture. The men flung their possessions on a tethered sledge for the ongoing journey down the cobbled street. The sky was darkening early, even for December. Seamen all, they could smell uncertain weather in the air. They tightened mufflers, pulled caps lower over their brows and stooped against the lively wind. Spiralling smoke rose, acrid yet comforting, from the chimneys in the valley below. Captain Jenn lit his pipe, cramming the last of his tobacco down into the bowl, reassured that, now they were ashore for a few weeks, he could replenish his supply. The sledge lightened as each man reached their home and removed his bag, leaving the others to stride closer to the harbour. Leonard’s turn was approaching with fearful rapidity. He was reluctant to leave the camaraderie of his shipmates and head into the unknown upheaval that awaited him.
‘Happy New Year lad,’ said Captain Jenn, making the conventional salutation, oblivious
of the irony. ‘See you at the service tomorrow.’
Raising his hand to the Captain, Leonard gulped in the winter’s air and exhaled heavily, his breath making patterns in the gloom. He discarded his half-smoked Woodbine, grinding its glow into the cobbles with more vigour than was necessary. He could feel his heart-rate quickening as he stepped towards the front door. He wanted to rehearse his opening sentences but words eluded him. Should he knock? The door would be unlocked. He never knocked but somehow he felt that there should be some warning of his intrusion into the household of sorrow. In the end, the decision was taken out of his hands. Rosie had been at the window awaiting his arrival. At not yet six years old, she was unconstrained by any sense of propriety or mourning.
‘’Tis Lennie,’ she exclaimed, struggling with the heavy wooden door and uninhibited, flinging her arms round his thighs, almost knocking him off balance.
‘Aye, let the lad come in maid,’ said their father, quietly.
Albert clasped his eldest son’s hand between his own and pumped it up and down.
‘Good to see ee boy, good to see ee. Especially, well, you know. Your ma’s been worried. We’ve all been worried. All this talk of torpedoes and such. Shame you weren’t in time for Christmas. Not that it’s been much of a Christmas, what with… .’ His sentence trailed momentarily. Then, ‘We did the best we could for the young uns, they don’t really understand. None of us really understand. As for the war, can’t believe it’s all over, they said it wouldn’t last beyond that first Christmas. Over, lad. Over and you be back, praise be.’
Albert was rambling uncharacteristically, trying to fill any awkward silences, taking up the conversation, perhaps to prevent his son saying anything inappropriate. Leonard was aware that his mother had come into the room, black-clad and unsmiling, hands wringing and eyes moistening. Never one for physical or verbal displays of affection, Polly merely nodded in Leonard’s direction.
