‘We want you to come home, Christopher,’ Clarissa said with what she fondly imagined was a winning smile.
‘I am home, Mother.’
Clarissa blinked. ‘This – this building can hardly be called that.’
‘On the contrary. This is my home, bought and paid for. The cattle and sheep are mine, and the crops in the fields. I have men and women working for me who give a good day’s work for a good day’s pay. I am satisfied with what I have.’
‘As our only child the estate and all we have will come to you. We are talking of great wealth and influence, Christopher.’
‘I don’t want it. I told you I didn’t want anything from you and Father once before – I meant it then and even more now. I have no intention of stepping into a dead man’s shoes, Mother. I couldn’t fill them as Nathaniel did.’
‘Too damn right you couldn’t.’ Oswald’s patience had run out. ‘Your brother was ten times, twenty times the man you are. He knew where his duty lay and there was no snivelling about it. But you’ll come cap in hand one day, boy. You see if I’m not right. You were spoonfed all your life and leopards don’t change their spots.’
‘This one did.’ Strangely, he wanted to laugh. He couldn’t blame them for thinking the dreamy, easygoing, impractical youth they’d known would fail. In that first bone-weary year he had often thought it himself. But he hadn’t failed. And he had improved the farm and was still improving it. He had found another part of himself, that was the only way he could describe his love of the land and this life. It didn’t negate his enjoyment of poetry and books, and there were times when he longed for the luxury of a whole morning or afternoon to himself just to read or think, but one couldn’t have everything. And he was lonely oft-times, but not for people. Just one person. He had expected the ache of losing her to get better over the years, but it had not.
His mother had risen to her feet, her face icy. ‘We came here holding out the olive branch, Christopher.’
‘And will that still apply if I don’t fall in with what you wish?’
Her answer was to sweep past him. ‘Come, Oswald. There is nothing more to be said.’
His father paused. ‘You’ll want us before we want you, boy. Remember that.’
As always, his father had to have the last word, Christopher thought with grim amusement. He made no effort to follow them or move to the window, not even when he heard the sound of the carriage moving off. Instead he threw some logs on the fire and a small amount of coal, and once the fire was blazing he put the kettle on the hob to make himself a pot of tea.
Going to the cupboard, he brought out a breadboard on which half a loaf remained and put it on the table after he’d pushed a couple of dirty dishes out of the way. Mabel, who ‘did’ for him and looked after his meals, had sprained her ankle badly a couple of days ago and was laid up, so he’d been fending for himself with the help of the odd bit of baking from Ivy, the other labourer’s wife. Fetching a pat of creamy butter and a large chunk of cheese from the cold slab in the pantry he placed them beside the bread, and then mashed the tea, letting it draw while he again went to the cold slab, this time for the big joint of ham Mabel had brought over before she’d had her accident. He cut himself two thick slices. He was hungry. He’d been up most of the night with a ewe who’d had trouble delivering, but the end result had been two healthy lambs and a delighted new mother, so he wasn’t complaining.
He sat eating his meal at the cluttered table, and as he glanced round the shabby surroundings he could have been surveying a palace. After the first arduous year was under his belt and he had survived what had been an uphill and painful struggle to pull through, he had begun to draw strength from the wood and bricks and mortar which made up his home. He had found a date carved into one of the ceiling beams in the kitchen. 1775. That meant this house had been standing for coming up to a hundred and fifty years, impervious to the cruel winds and rain and snow which lashed it daily in the worst of the weather. It had nurtured generations of children born under its protection, and it had served them well. It deserved the best he could give it.
This oneness with his surroundings had never diminished, not even when he had been forced to acknowledge that old Jed had sold him something of a pig in a poke. Everything in and about the farm was tired and old, and his three hundred pounds a year only stretched so far. But he was improving things, bit by bit. And his men, Ray Fletcher and George Irvin, were with him, their wives too. When he’d bought more cattle and sheep, knowing he had to make the farm work for him if he was going to make a profit, they had stepped up to the extra toil involved, understanding he couldn’t afford to take on more men for the present. And the additional fields of wheat and barley and all they involved, they’d been with him there too. Sometimes the three of them, he and Ray and George, had worked eighteen hours a day, and their wives had done their bit and more. He wouldn’t forget it. Finishing his tea, Christopher wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. No, he wouldn’t forget it. They’d get their reward, God willing. How long they’d have to wait for it was something else.
His mouth curving wryly, he shook his head. Most folk would think he was mad, barmy, not to take what his parents had offered. He knew that. And there was no doubt that even a smidgen of the Armstrong thousands would be useful here. But that was the thing. They weren’t offering his farm a lifeline, just the opposite.
His stomach full, he stretched his arms over his head and yawned. He had to sleep for a while. Ray and George would fetch him if they needed him. Walking across to the sofa, he nudged the cat off with his hand and threw himself down. He was too tired to think about his parents or Nathaniel or any of it. The cat jumped back up – it had figured out long ago that its master was a soft touch – and nestled itself across Christopher’s chest, gently kneading the rough material of his jacket and purring before settling down to sleep.
Chapter 24
There was talk that the war would soon be over, as the Allies were sweeping all before them along the whole Western Front, from the Schedlt River in the north to the Sedan in the Ardennes. All along the line, the Germans were avoiding battle wherever possible, if the newspapers were to be believed, making a stand only in order to cover their retreat. Elsewhere, Germany’s allies were collapsing. But for the people of Britain, weakened by wartime hardships, one last tribulation was gathering strength as September unfolded. The virulent strain of influenza known as the ‘Spanish flu’, which had already caused millions of death around the globe, had reached Europe, and already doctors were predicting that more people would die of influenza than were killed by the war.
Pearl and Nessie were terrified that Seth would be stricken by the flu after all he’d been through. Although some patients recovered, others died swiftly in agony.
Pearl tried – unsuccessfully – to persuade her brother to stay upstairs in the flat rather than serve in the shop where he came into contact with hundreds of people in a week, but he was adamant that he wasn’t going to leave Nessie to do all the work when he was perfectly healthy. In the event, it wasn’t Seth who succumbed to the disease. In the middle of October, when 2,000 deaths a week were being reported in the capital, which completely overshadowed the fact that the House of Commons voted by 274 to 25 to allow women to become MPs, Nessie became ill.
At first she dismissed her fever and blinding headache by saying she’d caught a chill, but within a few hours it was clear she had the flu. The rigors and severe muscle pain, wracking cough and inability to stand and walk all proclaimed that Nessie had contracted the severe form of the disease. The newspapers had reported that some victims could die within twenty-four hours of showing symptoms, a blue tint to their faces and coughing up blood.
The doctor was no help when he came to the house. Nessie’s normal rosy complexion was a dull, pasty white apart from two spots of burning colour on her cheekbones and her eyes appeared sunken in her head. ‘It’s the flu, sure enough.’ The doctor was exhausted; he had been on his f
eet for hours visiting patient after patient. ‘Try to get liquids down her and I’ll leave you an elixir to be taken every four hours. It might help.’
‘Is that all I can do, give her liquids?’ Pearl had taken the doctor through to the sitting room after he’d examined Nessie, and now she and Seth stared at the tired man. They’d shut the shop earlier, putting a notice in the window to say that due to illness, the business would be closed for the next few days.
‘I’m afraid so.’ The doctor rubbed at his gritty eyes. ‘I can try to get her into hospital, but to be honest they’re full and half the staff are off ill. She’ll probably get more care here with you if you’re prepared to nurse her, although . . .’ He paused.
‘Although?’ Pearl prompted.
‘Patients stricken this quickly and severely often die within hours. It’s a form of hemorrhagic pneumonia, although we don’t understand what the actual strain is. I’m sorry to be so blunt.’
‘But she’s strong and healthy,’ Seth said roughly.
‘This flu is unusual in that it seems to target those people usually least vulnerable.’ Taking in their shocked faces, the man added, ‘I’m sorry, that’s no comfort, I know, but it’s one of the few things we do know about this disease. Have either of you been feeling unwell?’ When they shook their heads, he said, ‘Let’s hope that continues. I have visited patients in homes where other members of the family are unaffected. Of course, in some places the whole family are ill. If either of you starts to feel unwell, go straight to bed and wait for the worst to pass. I’ll call to see Mrs Ramshaw tomorrow.’
Seth saw the doctor out. When he returned, Pearl was in the kitchen making Nessie a warm drink. ‘I’ll take it in to her.’ Seth held out his hand for the mug of sweet milk.
‘No, I’ll do it.’ She and Nessie had agreed that Seth mustn’t enter the sick room, and up to now she had managed to keep him out. ‘It’s silly for both of us to risk catching it, Seth, and I’ve been seeing to her thus far.’
‘I’ll take it in to her,’ he repeated. ‘I want to.’
‘Well, I don’t want you to – and neither does Nessie. You’ve made wonderful progress since you came home, and you don’t want to undo all the good you’ve done.’
‘Pearl, I’m a grown man, not a bairn, and you’re not my mother. I’m not ungrateful for the thought and your care, you know that, but allow me to decide what I can and can’t do.’
‘This is ridiculous.’ Pearl glared at him. As though she hadn’t enough to concern her with Nessie, here was Seth acting up. ‘If you think you’re helping me by doing this, you’re wrong. I don’t want to have to worry about you as well.’
Seth looked at his sister. A straight look. ‘I wasn’t thinking about you,’ he said bluntly. ‘I was thinking about Nessie. I need to be with her, Pearl.’
Pearl stared at him, her mouth opening slightly before she shut it with a little snap. ‘You . . .’ She was lost for words. ‘I didn’t . . .’
‘Know how I feel?’ Seth finished for her. ‘Why should you have known? No one does, not even Nessie. I’m not stupid, Pearl. I know I’ve got no chance with her.’ He smiled grimly. ‘I’ve told her too much, that’s the thing.’
‘You care for Nessie.’ It was a statement, not a question.
Seth answered anyway. ‘More than life itself. If she dies . . .’ He shuddered and sighed. ‘But she won’t die. I won’t let her. Matron Gordon used to come and talk to me sometimes when the others were asleep. She was a canny old bird, the Matron. She knew full well I wanted to die. “Fight, man, fight,” she used to say. Even when I swore at her, she still used to come back the next night, like a little wise owl. And she was wise in her way, even if I wanted to strangle her at the time.’ He looked his sister in the face. ‘Give me the drink, Pearl.’
Pearl gave him the mug.
Nessie was coughing and struggling for breath when Seth entered the room, her forehead wet with perspiration. She could barely speak when the paroxysm passed, but as he sat down on the edge of the bed and wiped her face with a flannel, she whispered, ‘Get out of here.’
‘That’s nice.’ Seth forced a grin. ‘Very friendly.’
‘I – mean it.’ She coughed again, holding a handkerchief to her lips, and when she removed it Seth was terrified to look in case there was blood. There wasn’t.
‘Drink this, it’ll help the cough.’ He lifted her slightly and held the mug to her lips.
‘Seth, please. You’ll be ill.’
‘Stop talking and making yourself cough and drink, woman.’
‘Not till you go.’
‘I’m not going, Nessie, so make up your mind about that. Pearl’s putting her feet up for a bit and I’m staying here. For the record, she tried to stop me and I told her what I’m telling you. I’m not a bairn and I won’t be treated like one. I decide what I do and don’t do.’
‘You – haven’t got – the sense you – were born with.’
‘Very probably.’ The doctor had talked about a form of pneumonia and he could believe it, listening to her trying to breathe. How could this thing rage through a healthy body so quickly and devastatingly? ‘Now drink the milk.’
She had a few sips, her eyes shut against the pounding headache she’d complained of earlier and her face screwed up in pain. Pearl came in and handed Seth the medicine. When they’d given her a dose, Pearl took the bottle away and Seth laid Nessie gently down, stroking the hair back from her damp forehead. ‘Go to sleep, I’m here.’
‘You shouldn’t be,’ she gasped.
‘Yes, I should, Nessie. Now shut up and go to sleep.’
The doctor came for the next five days. When on the sixth day Nessie still hadn’t coughed up blood, he seemed more hopeful, and on the seventh day he said he wouldn’t call again unless he was needed. Once in the sitting room with Pearl and Seth, he said quietly, ‘I think she’s past the worst, but convalescence is protracted. Expect her to be weak and easily fatigued and low in herself for some weeks.’
‘She sleeps all the time now.’
‘Good. Let her. Better than any medicine I can give her. I think she escaped the hemorrhagic pneumonia but she’s certainly had a touch of the bacterial kind, and recovery will be slow.’
Once the doctor had left, Seth sat down very suddenly on the sofa. Pearl looked at her brother. ‘You’re exhausted,’ she said softly. ‘You haven’t slept properly for days.’ Seth had insisted on sitting up nights on her bed while she slept in his and she knew he’d only dozed and catnapped because Nessie had told her that every time she’d opened her eyes, he had been awake and looking at her. ‘Nessie’s sleeping so go and get in your bed and have a few hours. I’ll keep looking in on her.’
He scrubbed at his face, his eyes bleary ‘We’re going to have to think about opening up downstairs now Nessie’s out of danger.’
‘Maybe, but not today. Today you’re going to sleep and I’m going to be in charge for once. I’d forgotten what a bossy individual you are, Seth Croft, till this little lot.’
‘Pot calling the kettle black.’
Pearl smiled. ‘Go on.’ She gave him a little push. ‘Go and sleep for as long as you can. I’ll see to her.’
She followed him out of the room and stood with him when he stopped and looked in at Nessie through the open bedroom door. Nessie’s eyes had been shut but she opened them and smiled. ‘Give it a day or two,’ she whispered, ‘and I’ll be back downstairs.’
‘Not if I have anything to do with it.’ Seth surveyed her pallid face. She had been on the plump side a week ago, now she seemed all skin and bones. ‘You’ll do as the doctor said and take it easy for the next few weeks. We’ll manage just fine in the shop. You’re not indispensable, you know.’
Nessie’s smile disappeared. ‘I know that,’ she said quietly.
Pearl pushed Seth again. ‘Go and lie down.’ Looking at Nessie, she said, ‘I’ve told him to rest, he’s done in.’
Nessie nodded but said nothing. When Seth h
ad shut the door to his room, Pearl smiled at her friend. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’
Once Nessie had drunk her tea she lay dozing, and Pearl caught up on a few chores she’d been putting off for days. The October day was cold but sunny, and Pearl opened all the windows in the flat apart from those in the rooms where Nessie and Seth were sleeping. It was wonderful to let the fresh north-east air blow through for an hour or so; she felt as though it had taken the last of the sickness with it. At least, she hoped it had. She’d been watching Seth like a hawk all week, but to date God had answered her prayers and neither she nor her brother showed any signs of falling ill.
It took a while for the flat to warm up again when she closed the windows, but after making herself a warm drink she sat down in the sitting room to darn some of Seth’s socks. She must have fallen asleep immediately, because when she came to she was still holding the first sock and the room was lit only by the glow from the fire, it being dark outside.
Jumping up, she went quickly into Nessie’s room, worried that her friend might need something. Nessie was wide awake, staring at the door as Pearl lit the gas mantle. ‘Is Seth all right?’
‘Seth? I think so. He’s still asleep. Hang on a sec, I’ll check on him.’ Opening Seth’s door, Pearl saw he was lying facing the wall, his regular, steady breathing telling her he was still out for the count. She reported back to Nellie, made her friend a fresh hot drink and plumped up her pillows, then went into the kitchen to see about dinner.
It was another hour before she popped her head round the door to Nessie’s room. ‘All right?’ she asked brightly, then, ‘What’s the matter? Are you feeling ill again?’
‘Seth’s sleeping a long time. You – you don’t think he’s going down with the flu, do you?’
‘He’s just tired, Nessie. We all are.’
Nessie nodded, then stared at Pearl. Stifling a sigh, Pearl said, ‘You want me to check on him again?’
‘Oh, please, Pearl. I’ve got a feeling on me . . .’
Born to Trouble Page 29
