Barefoot on the Cobbles

by Janet Few

  ‘How severe was the blow?’ Mr Warlow asked.

  ‘It was not a very hard blow.’

  ‘And what gave you cause for concern?’

  Emma Stanbury stole a look at Polly and continued, reluctantly, ‘The defendant said she would do it and that she wished her daughter was dead.’

  At this, Polly became animated and cried out, ‘I didn’t. It’s a wilful lie.’

  Mr Warlow frowned but passed no comment, returning instead to questioning Mrs Stanbury, ‘What attempts were being made to feed the girl?’

  ‘I gave some bread to the girl and the defendant said she would not have food given to a dying girl.’

  The inquisition went on but Polly had sunk back into her daydream, once again oblivious to the words of her neighbour.

  ***

  Outside, the winter’s day was darkening; the trial had gone on for several hours, with the magistrates taking only a short break for refreshment. During this time, someone had given Polly a cup of scarcely-brewed tea and some stale biscuits but now she felt weak from hunger and enfeebled by the long hours of standing.

  Mr Caird was giving evidence, responding to Mr Warlow’s questions, ‘I knew the defendant well. She would come to see me frequently. In her daughter’s last illness, she asked me to pray that the girl would die and said that she would be better off dead than mazed.’

  No. No. That was not how it had been, thought Polly. She must say something, she could not let that pass, ‘I did not wish her dead,’ she cried.

  She had never really taken to Mr Caird. He was, after all, not one of them. Then there was that business when he’d spoken to her about Bertie. Well, that just wasn’t right and she really hadn’t wanted aught to do with the man since. Why couldn’t folk just mind their own business and let her alone?

  Mr Warlow was pressing on, ignoring her interruption.

  ‘What is your opinion of the defendant?’

  ‘She is rather eccentric. In fact, I would go further…’

  Polly was no longer listening to Mr Caird’s opinion of her. She was back in the Peppercombe Valley of her childhood, squabbling with her sisters, walking the Devon lanes in search of blackberries or sloes. Then she could visualise her time in Bideford, exciting for the young girl she had then been but she preferred the quiet of the country and the scents of the sea. Next, she was watching the rush of the Clovelly tide, relieved that Albert’s boat was safely ashore, clasping a small girl’s hand in hers, feeling her second child quicken in her womb.

  ***

  The prosecution had just called their key witness. Ottley was intrigued. What had motivated such a man, one who was clearly of the professional classes, to become embroiled in the goings on of an insignificant fisherman’s family? Ah but perhaps that was the point, Ottley began to mentally debate with himself, maybe the defendants were not so insignificant after all. If he could only understand what motivated them, would he then be able to unravel how this tragedy had come about? He wished he knew more of the dead girl; was she the key to all this?

  Edward Collins took a deep breath and tried to compose himself as he walked towards the stand. This was very different from the coroner’s court where he had been full of self-righteous confidence, assured that he was acting as every good citizen should. Recently, it had become increasingly clear to him that he was not at one with the villagers of Clovelly. Although Collins struggled to interpret the subtleties of social interaction, even he had noticed a distinct cooling in his neighbours’ attitude to him since the inquest and this had intensified over the past week. Folk barely grunted when they met him in the street, or they hastened in the opposite direction when he approached. His belief that he had been accepted, that he fitted in, had been a delusion.

  Edward glanced up at the Clovelly villagers in the crowded gallery, intimidating, condemning, as if it were he who was on trial. He responded to Mr Warlow’s questioning as best he could but all the brash conviction that he had felt when giving evidence to the coroner had deserted him. He found that he couldn’t remember things, that he was muddling the order of the events that he was trying to describe. On several occasions, Mr Warlow had to ask him to clarify a point. Collins shook his head from side to side, trying to marshal his thoughts and banish his confusion. It was difficult to recall what his initial answers had been. With Mr Warlow’s guidance he stumblingly reached the point in his rambling and repetitive narrative where Daisy was taken from her parents’ home.

  ‘They moved her from her father’s house to Mrs Harris’. I, my wife and other neighbours, attended to her there,’ he said.

  ‘To whom did you express your concerns about the defendants’ treatment of their daughter? Did you complain to the police?’ asked Mr Warlow.

  Once again, Edward Collins felt as if it were he who was the accused. ‘No. I did not complain to the police. I felt that friendly pressure was more effective. About two weeks before this incident I did speak to Mr Caird and then to Mrs Hamlyn, who is the local agent for the NSPCC, about the defendants’ treatment of their mentally weak son.’

  Collins was wondering how much longer he would have to endure this interrogation. He was deeply regretting his interference. All he had wanted was justice for Daisy, a girl who had held an inexplicable attraction for him, an appeal that he was unable to define. Now it was Mr Lefroy who was bewildering him, trying to confuse him, to trip him up. Why wasn’t his wife here? Amelia had not been called as a witness and had chosen not to attend. He needed her now. She kept him sane. There was a roaring in his ears, surely he wasn’t going to have one of his turns. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all these hostile people. He breathed deeply and slowly, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to remember the calming techniques that he had been taught in the sanatorium at Netley.

  ‘Who paid for the girl’s care when she was removed from her home?’

  Here was a chance to redeem himself, ‘I myself paid for a great deal.’

  ‘Did her parents refuse to pay for her care?’

  ‘Not that I am aware,’ replied Collins, wishing he could say differently.

  ‘Did you at any time hear the defendant say that her daughter had taken hold of her?’ Mr Lefroy asked.

  Edward did not stop to consider his response, ‘Yes, it is true, she did say that her daughter had taken hold of her before she struck her.’

  ‘Can you swear that any of the blows were struck by the victim’s mother. They might have been struck by the girl herself?’

  ‘They might have been,’ replied Edward, ‘but it is hardly likely. The girl would not cry out if she was striking herself.’

  ‘Do you have anything else to say about the defendants’ treatment of their daughter?’

  ‘The mother told me she had smacked the back of her hand once but later she said she had hit her several times.’

  This jerked Polly from her reverie once more, ‘I did not,’ she exclaimed, vehemently.

  ‘Did the defendant tell you it was because the girl had her hands round her mother’s throat?’ Mr Lefroy persisted.

  ‘She certainly did mention that the girl had hold of her.’

  ‘I put it to you Mr Collins,’ said Mr Lefroy, sensing victory, ‘that this evidence differs materially from that which you presented at the coroner’s inquest.’

  ‘No, sir,’ the response was meek, no longer defiant.

  ***

  Mr Lefroy was reviewing the evidence.

  ‘I cannot recall a single witness who has said that the victim’s father has done anything which, even in the most indirect way, could possibly have accelerated the girl’s death. There is no evidence that food was short but on the contrary, there is every indication that food was abundant. There was farm produce to be had and the father was a fisherman; their diet was not noticeably restricted by rationing. If anything was asked for it was provided. I cannot see what more there was that the father could have done in respect of his daughter. There is in fact no evidence of breach of duty on the father�
��s part.’

  Albert looked up at this. Did this mean that he was free, that for him at least the ordeal was over? But what of Polly?

  ‘As regards the female prisoner, there is no evidence of gross neglect. There is no chance of a jury convicting either of them, should the case to be sent to the Assizes. The parents took steps to have the girl removed to a nursing home but this was not deemed appropriate. With regard to the story of ill-treatment, this all rests on the testimony of Mr Edward Collins, who I do not think, by any stretch of the imagination, can be called a reliable witness. The tale of ill-usage did not lose anything in the telling. Often it is found that a mother is a poor nurse but this is very different to criminal neglect. I do not suggest that the mother is dismissed without any stain. She has been foolish but I put it to the bench that there has not been such evidence brought forward by the prosecution that would justify her or her husband standing trial at the Assizes.’

  A smattering of applause from the gallery was hushed by Mr Duncan and the magistrates retired to discuss their verdict. Although he still cut a forlorn figure, Albert was looking a little more relaxed, the colour had returned to his cheeks. Polly, drained and haggard, was still weighed down by the enormity of her predicament. She had no comprehension that Mr Lefroy’s words might lead to her release.

  The watching crowds shuffled restlessly and murmured conversations buzzed and hummed. They did not have to wait long for the verdict. The magistrates returned and Mr Duncan rose to address to the room; an anticipatory hush descended.

  ‘I have to inform you that, with very little discussion, we have decided to dismiss the evidence against both defendants.’

  A feeling of relief astonished Richard Ottley by its intensity. It seemed that he was not the only spectator who had been craving a not guilty verdict. A few isolated claps coalesced and surged into a ringing ovation.

  For Albert, this was a closure but subconsciously, Polly was aware that she would never escape from the past, that it could not be obliterated by the magistrate’s words. Her burdens would never leave her. All that she had endured remained, lurking within, threatening her equanimity and corroding her future. The room swirled, Polly’s body burned, nausea threatened. She was vaguely aware that someone was calling for three cheers for Mr Lefroy. Before the final hurrah died away, the load that she carried finally overwhelmed her and she fell to the floor.

  Epilogue

  20 August 1962

  The summer season was at its zenith and Clovelly was awash with carefree strangers. Unrestrained holidaymakers, brightly dressed and exhilarated, exclaimed over the quaintness of the scene and cooed at the donkeys. In recent years, the patient animals’ role as beasts of burden had been exchanged for the task of wooing the tourists. Girls in twin-sets, slacks and unsuitable sandals, interlinked arms and giggled as they steadied each other on the steep slope. They stopped to wonder at the sturdy, grey haired woman, in a worn blue cardigan, who was feeding the herring gull that relentlessly begged for bread on the wall by the Look-out. Although she was not diverted from the bird’s demands, the lady greeted the visitors cheerily and invited them to put pennies in her proudly displayed box, that collected funds for the Lifeboat Association. A bent little man passed by, accompanied by a tall youth.

  ‘Hello Auntie Lil,’ called the lad, eager to be off to the shore.

  The woman finally ignored the gull’s importunities and addressed the boy, who fidgeted awkwardly in front of her, ungainly as he hovered on the threshold of manhood.

  ‘Good to see you lad. You’ve brought your granfer down to visit us on his birthday then.’

  The boy was already clattering unheedingly down the street. The man responded in his stead, ‘We thought we’d look in on mother,’ he said, ‘She’s always pleased to see the youngsters but she’s not answering.’

  ‘Not like her to go far,’ the woman replied, ‘I’ve not had sight of her since I popped in first thing.’

  ‘I’d best be off after the boy,’ said the man. ‘He’ll be hoping to earn a tanner or two rowing the visitors out.’

  ‘Well, happy birthday to you brother, that’s another year gone and none of us getting any younger.’ The woman paused, ‘How is Annie these days?’

  ‘She can’t get about much on account of her arthritis but we gets by,’ the man answered, with a rueful smile.

  He headed after his grandson and the woman watched his rolling gait until he disappeared from view.

  Unnoticed amongst the uproar, an elderly lady, stooped and careworn, was making her way down to the shore. She rarely went beyond the Look-out now but on this particular day, it seemed important. She needed to put her feet on the sea-smoothed stones one final time. Only today, just for a few brief moments, would she allow herself to remember. It was as if the August sun, that had burned off the early morning mists, had scorched through the protective layer that the old woman had erected around her. Nobody spoke of the dark days long gone; folk barely recalled them now. Why was she still here when so many had passed on? Her beloved Albert, laid in the graveyard these past five years. Mark, Mrs Hamlyn, Mrs Stanbury, all dead. Another war had come and gone; the Great War, their war, had not, as they’d said, been the war to end all wars. Rosie and Lily, both widows, with grown children of their own. Sometimes she would look at Rosie’s daughter and catch a glimpse of a darker child, flittering through shafts of sunlight, laughing at the waves, running barefoot over the cobbles. The few who were left never mentioned the matters that plagued her soul. It was as if there had been no accusations, no courtroom, no anguish. After a few moments, she turned her back on the sea, turned her back on the past and buried her memories deeply once more.

  The weather-wise locals muttered that they would have to pay for this spell of hot sunshine, that the winter was set to be a harsh one. Unwary visitors, unused to the seaside heat, displayed pink cheeks and sun-sore arms. Children swung sandy buckets and fruitlessly searched for crabs in all the wrong places. The latest hits blared from transistor radios; Frank Ifield crooning I Remember You. The old woman on the beach did not recognise the song. The irony of its title was lost on her. On the quay, the adults sat and supped sweet tea and pretended to relish the unfamiliar clotted cream that was liberally smeared on their scones. Their offspring clamoured for yet one more ice cream in its wafered cone, which always went soft before the last of the treat was consumed. Those heading up the street, unused to the steepness of the slope, panted and puffed, all speech suspended for the duration of the climb. Self-absorbed, their thoughts were of guest house teas and sending postcards home. They were villagers for a day, for a brief stay, for a season. The worries of the locals, the secrets of their pasts, were of no concern to these transient strangers. As they paused on the Look-out to regain their breath, they watched the tiny figures on the shore below. Careful observers spotted a drab little woman, lost in thought, with her shoes and wrinkled stockings in her hand, hobbling up the slipway, barefoot on the cobbles.

  Acknowledgements

  There are so many people who have helped me in my Barefoot journey. Firstly, thank you to my characters’ relatives for letting me lay bare their ancestors, in all their frailty. Thank you to The Clovelly Archive and History Group for their assistance and for permission to use the photograph that appears on the cover. I am grateful to the publishing collective Blue Poppy Publishing for taking me into their fold. I would like to pay tribute to Dan Britton for the truly amazing song that he wrote to accompany this story. The lyrics appear at the end of the book. Details of his evocative music can be found at www.chrisconway.org/dan.html. The lovely ladies of my writers’ group have been unfailingly helpful, providing advice and support to a comparative novice, at least as far as writing fiction is concerned. I owe a huge debt to those who have scrutinised drafts of Barefoot on the Cobbles, being constructively critical, chasing errant commas across my manuscript and ironing out the clunky bits; any that remain are entirely my responsibility. Finally, of course, thanks to my neare
st and dearest who have had put up with me as Barefoot took over my life.

  Author’s Note

  Barefoot on the Cobbles is based on a true story. All the main events and many of the minor ones, are rooted in fact. This means that, unlike most novels where you find a disclaimer about the characters being fictional, all the people that you meet in these pages actually existed. A few have had their first names changed but this was purely because there were rather too many Marys or Williams. I have made every effort to contact the living descendants of the principal characters and have had their blessing to write this book. I do hope they feel that I have done their ancestors justice. For some of the characters, I had an overabundance of information, including, in some instances, the actual words that they used. In other cases, it was difficult to uncover many details, so I had to use my best judgement. I have tried to be faithful to the historical record and where I have had to fill in the gaps, I have endeavoured to invent scenarios that I feel sit well with the characters’ personalities, as I perceive them.

  For more background information about the creation of Barefoot on the Cobbles, its characters and its setting, including many photographs, please look for the link at www.bluepoppypublishing.co.uk or refer to my own website www.thehistoryinterpreter.wordpress.com.

  Barefoot on the Cobbles

  The pretty white cottages, the thatch and the slate,

  Hide many stories of life, love and hate.

  The sea and the church and the woods on the hill,

  The stories that happened are living there still.

  Maybe a murder or maybe a storm,

  The wreck of a ship on a cold winter's morn,

  The pages of history turn every day,