A few moments later, Pearl was back, saying, ‘He’s sleeping, Nessie, that’s all. Look, read one of those magazines by your bed and don’t worry. Dinner will be ready soon and his stomach will wake him. You know Seth and food.’
Pearl had cooked stuffed cod for dinner. Nessie had no appetite at all but the dish was light and tasty and she thought it might tempt her. When it was ready, Seth was still deeply asleep and she was loath to wake him. He hadn’t slept properly in days and was completely exhausted; she’d keep his food hot and he could eat when he awoke. She took Nessie’s meal into her on a tray and the first thing Nessie said was, ‘Is Seth up yet?’
‘No, but I’ll keep his food hot.’
‘He’s ill, isn’t he? You’re not saying, so as not to worry me. He should never have looked after me, it’s all my fault.’
Reminding herself that the doctor had said depression was a factor in recovery, Pearl said patiently, ‘Look, lass, he’s exhausted, which is only to be expected. And if he did go down with anything, it wouldn’t be your fault anyway.’
It was the wrong thing to say. Nessie’s chin wobbled and the next moment she’d burst into tears. Putting the tray on her own bed, Pearl knelt down by Nessie and patted her hand. ‘You’re just feeling low and no wonder, you’ve been so ill.’
‘P-promise me he’s all right.’
‘Seth? I promise.’
‘I – I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to him because of me. He’s come through so much and he’s so brave and good . . .’
A light had clicked on in Pearl’s mind. Still patting Nessie’s hand, her voice soft, she murmured, ‘You like him, don’t you?’ Why hadn’t she seen it before? Thinking back, a hundred little things should have alerted her. Oh, what a muddle.
Nessie retrieved her hand and wiped her eyes. Her face burning, she whispered, ‘Promise me you won’t ever tell him, Pearl. He’d be so embarrassed. Here’s me old enough to be his mother—’
‘Hardly,’ Pearl interrupted.
‘Well, nearly. There was a bairn in the shop a few weeks ago who asked Seth if I was his mam.’
‘I don’t know why,’ Pearl said stoutly. ‘You look younger than your age and Seth looks older than his.’
Nessie smiled shakily. ‘You don’t lie very well, lass. I look what I am, a middle-aged woman with not much to commend her. Seth – Seth’s in his prime. He’ll want to marry one day, have a family, bairns.’
It was on the tip of Pearl’s tongue to tell her, but then she bit back the words. She had promised Seth, but she hadn’t promised Nessie and she didn’t intend to. Her voice brisk, she said, ‘No more crying, that won’t help you get better.’ Standing up, she placed the tray on Nessie’s lap. ‘You get on the other side of that and I’ll be back in a minute when I’ve ate mine, all right? And don’t worry about Seth. He’s as tough as old boots, all us Crofts are.’ She nipped out of the room before Nessie could say anything more, shutting the door behind her.
Seth was just beginning to stir. As she reached his side he opened his eyes. ‘What time is it? It’s dark outside – how long have I been asleep? You should have woken me.’
Ignoring all that, Pearl said urgently, ‘Nessie’s been crying.’
Seth shot up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘You.’
‘Me?’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘What are you on about?’
‘She’d got it into her head you were going down with the flu.’
Seth stated the obvious. ‘I’m not.’
‘I know that, but she thought you were and she got terribly upset.’
‘But you told her I was all right?’ Seth said as though that settled the matter.
Wondering why men in general and her brother in particular were so thick, Pearl said tersely, ‘She was crying over you, Seth.’
‘I know, you said.’
‘She said she couldn’t live with herself if anything happened to you.’
‘Nothing is going to happen to—’ Seth stopped abruptly.
‘She thinks you’re brave and good and you’ve come through so much, but she’s older and one day you’ll want to marry and have bairns with someone. She thinks you’d be embarrassed to know how she feels.’
Seth stared at her, the look on his face making Pearl relax and take a breath. She’d done her bit, now it was up to him.
She wasn’t privy to what went on between them once Seth had closed Nessie’s bedroom door behind him, but some time later when Seth called her, his face was beaming. She came into the room to see Seth sitting holding Nessie’s hand and in that moment Pearl really did think Nessie looked like a young lass. ‘We’re going to be married as soon as Nessie’s well.’ Even Seth’s voice was different, lighter.
Pearl squealed and then the three of them hugged each other, Nessie keeping her arms round Pearl for a long time. ‘Bless you,’ she whispered. ‘Bless you, lass.’
PART SIX
A Kind of Peace
November 1918
Chapter 25
‘It’s over. Germany signed the Armistice days ago, and they’ve taken down the blackout curtains and unmasked the streetlights. Everyone went mad in the town, with dancing and fireworks and street parties for the bairns.’
Christopher stared at Ray Fletcher. He had known the end was near, of course. Even somewhere as remote as Hill Farm had the odd tinker or two pass by, and the last time he’d gone to the cattle market, the townfolk had been talking about the Germans being pushed back to the old Hindenburg Line. He took the newspaper Ray had bought for him when Ray and his wife had visited their eldest girl in Sunderland, who had just presented them with their first grandchild.
Reading swiftly, he scanned the front page, passing over the reports of the jubilation in the capital which had marked the end of the war. The terms of surrender were hard: Germany had to hand over 5,000 heavy guns, 30,000 machine guns, 2,000 war planes and all her U-boats; the surface fleet would be interned in British waters, with only caretaker crews. Thousands of locomotives, wagons and lorries were to be delivered to the victors, and Allied troops would occupy the Rhineland, their upkeep to be paid for by Germany. Finally, the Allied blockade of Germany was to remain in force.
Christopher read on. Apparently the Kaiser had fled Germany and revolt had swept the country. Socialist demonstrators were filling the streets, sailors had mutinied and army troops had seized their command posts. If it wasn’t all-out revolution, it wasn’t far off. And not before time. Because of this madman, ten million men and boys worldwide had died, Nathaniel among them. The newspapers were already calling them ‘a lost generation’.
Stuffing the newspaper into his jacket pocket to read later, he pulled his muffler further up his face. It had been trying to snow all day and the wind was enough to cut you in two; all he wanted was to get indoors in front of the fire and toast his toes with a glass of whisky in his hand, but he still had one or two things to do outside first. He smiled at Ray. ‘What’s the baby like?’
‘Best ask the wife. Far as I can see, he’s got two arms and two legs same as any bairn, but according to her there’s never been a bab to match him.’
‘Proud grandma.’
‘Oh aye, she’s that all right.’
As the two men parted, the first fat snowflakes began to fall out of a laden sky. Christopher knew the signs. They were in for a packet. Last winter had been a bad one; the wind had been like a carving-knife, cutting hands and cheeks until they bled, and the cold had frozen his gloves like boards day after day. The oldtimers were saying this winter wouldn’t be any different. Before he had come to live here he had never regarded the weather as friend or foe, but he did now. Wall-mending, milking, cattle-feeding and watering still had to go on whatever the conditions. The cowhouses and stables had to be cleaned and the hens, calves, pigs and sheep had to be fed. A good winter made all the difference, if such a thing existed in this part of the country. He understood now
why the weather was the favourite topic of conversation with countrymen: it was the foundation on which all their livelihoods was based.
During the winter months all the cattle were kept indoors at night and food was fed to them in their cribs in the form of pulped turnip, hay or crushed corn. Christopher found he felt an abiding satisfaction when he surveyed the animals settled down for the night. It made for more work in the winter, and before bedtime a visit had to be paid to all the animals in their various buildings to ensure they were safe and in no danger from their tethers, but nevertheless this gathering-in touched something fundamental deep inside.
It was quiet in the cattle-shed apart from the chinking of tie-chains, and puffs and snorts. Outside, the wind was howling and the storm was gathering force; inside, was lamp-lit serenity. Christopher experienced a shaft of pure joy that came from knowing that at this precise moment there was no place he would rather be on God’s good earth. He grinned at the fanciful thought. The men and women who worked for him were not given to such whimsical notions, or if they were, they didn’t admit to it. He was an oddity, caught between two worlds, and there had only ever been one person who had allowed him to be himself and loved him for it.
If she had lived, Pearl would be a mature woman of twenty-eight or so now. They would likely have had children. A son maybe, and two daughters. He would have liked daughters, little miniatures of Pearl, and his son would have been tall and gentle. Charles Armstrong. That had a ring to it.
He gazed over the cattle, their warm breath like steam as they contentedly chomped.
Pearl would have been a good mother and he would have been a good father; they both, in different ways, had had bitter childhoods. They would have made sure Charles and his sisters knew they were loved and cherished.
The shed door opening brought him swinging round to see George stomping in, his cap and shoulders covered in a mantle of white. ‘Comin’ down thick and fast now, Mr Armstrong. We’ll be diggin’ ourselves out in the mornin’, you mark my words.’
George always looked on the bright side.
‘Well, it won’t be the first time, George, and I don’t suppose it will be the last.’
‘Aye, you’re right there.’ George picked up a bale of hay. ‘I’ll be after seein’ to Bess and Gracie,’ he said, naming the two shire horses, ‘and I can manage the rest the night. Why don’t you get yerself in front of the fire, Mr Armstrong? You’ve been hard at it the last couple of days, with no let up.’
‘There was extra to do with Ray not around.’
‘Aye, well he’s back now an’ he’s seein’ to the cattle in the other shed.’
Christopher nodded. He liked George and he knew George liked him. George was getting on a bit, and the old Northerner treated him much as Wilbert had done, giving him the respect due to his position but with a fatherly edge to his manner. He had struggled in the early days, but George and Ray hadn’t condemned him for his lack of experience, rather attempted to ease his way as much as they could – and he was grateful to them for it.
Once in the house, he fetched the beef stew and dumplings Mabel had left on a low heat in the oven. She was a good cook but a plain one, and that suited him fine. He had never particularly enjoyed the elaborate dinners in his parents’ home. The cat wound round his ankles as he ate his meal and he left a good saucerful of food for her, although she was supposed to earn her living mousing.
Once he had finished, Christopher lit his pipe and poured himself a glass of whisky before settling in front of the fire. It was then he remembered the newspaper. Fetching it from the pocket of his jacket, he resumed his seat. After quickly going over the front page again, he opened it up and began to read the local news.
Many schools were closed because of the current influenza epidemic, and absences from work had risen sharply, but those who were able had celebrated Victory Day, some a little too heartily. The article showed a picture of an inebriated man clinging hold of a lamp-post with a silly grin on his face. Christopher smiled to himself.
Local women up and down the town had got together to throw street parties for the children which were thoroughly enjoyed by all. In spite of the restrictions on meat, butter and tea, there were veritable feasts to be had and the children had a wonderful time. The lucky children in Zion Street in the East End had a real treat when a local shopowner baked two hundred fishcakes for their supper. Christopher barely glanced at the photograph of a long trestle table covered with food, and benches upon which so many children were squeezed it didn’t look as though they’d be able to move, let alone eat anything. A woman was holding a large tray on which the said fishcakes were piled.
He had actually turned the page when he felt every nerve in his body jangle. His heart beating fit to burst, he whipped the page back and stared at the photograph of the woman and children again. It was impossible. Of course it was impossible, he knew that, but it was Pearl’s face smiling up at him. He stood up, holding the newspaper close to the oil lamp that was on the mantelpiece above his easy chair. The likeness to Pearl had his stomach churning. It wasn’t her, since this woman was a shopkeeper and obviously fairly prosperous if she could afford to provide a host of children with free food, but the similarity was uncanny.
He stared at the photograph for a long time before refilling his whisky glass and sitting down again. He tried to read the rest of the paper – it was rare they had the luxury of obtaining such reports from beyond their little world – but he couldn’t concentrate. He felt disturbed, restless.
After throwing some more logs on the range fire, Christopher walked to the window, staring out at what was fast becoming a blizzard. Last winter they’d been snowed in for a couple of months, but that hadn’t been till January. It was going to be a long hard time of it, if this little lot persisted. Still, with the war over he could maybe see about taking another man on in the spring. It might be a bit tight financially but they needed more help if the farm was going to thrive and grow. What was it his father had always said? ‘You need to speculate to accumulate.’ That was it. But then with thousands behind him, Oswald Armstrong hadn’t exactly been gambling his last penny.
Stretching, he turned away from the window. With Ray visiting his daughter he and George had been hard pushed the last couple of days, and he was dog tired. Last night he’d shut his eyes for two minutes in the chair and woken up to daylight pouring in the window and a stiff neck. He’d have a sluice down in a minute and get to bed – he needed his rest. But still he stood surveying the room, without really seeing it. She did look like Pearl, that girl in the paper. Could it be a relation? He remembered Pearl saying she had brothers but she hadn’t mentioned a sister. Perhaps a cousin? It could happen like that sometimes. How old would this girl be?
He picked up the newspaper again and studied the picture. It was hard to tell. Twenty-three, twenty-four maybe, but the camera could lie, and unless the girl had inherited the business it was unlikely she’d be that young. Anyway, it was no good going digging up the past. Pearl was gone and he’d learned to live with the fact. He was married to this farm now and she was a possessive wife. Flinging the paper down, he put the kettle on to boil. He’d spoil himself and wash with warm water tonight instead of making do with cold as he normally did, being too tired to bother.
By the time he climbed the rickety ladder to the long room under the eaves, he felt more settled. The girl in the newspaper might be a relation of Pearl’s or she might not; either way it was irrelevant. There would be nothing gained in trying to find her. The manner of Pearl’s death and the loss of the future they’d planned together had nearly sent him mad for a while; he couldn’t resurrect all those feelings and he didn’t want to.
Settling himself down on the straw mattress that made up his bed, he pulled the heap of covers over him just as he was, fully dressed. The roof had so many draughts he’d learned early on that he needed to sleep with his clothes on.
Not that it would always be like this, he told himself, smiling
in the dark as the cat padded into the room and, purring loudly, curled up beside him. For a supposed farm cat, she liked her comfort, did Daisy. He’d restocked the farm over the last years and got the barns and cattle sheds into good order. He’d done quite a bit, when he thought about it. Next year he could think about moving the pigsties and boiling-up room, and then perhaps start on the house. Everything in good time.
On this comfortable thought and in spite of the wind howling like a banshee, Christopher went straight to sleep.
He slept soundly all night, curled up like a dormouse, barely moving, waking at five o’clock as he always did when some inner alarm clock told him it was time to start the day. Once downstairs, he stoked up the fire which he’d banked down with wet tea leaves the night before, and made himself a cup of tea. That would suffice until eight o’clock, when he came in from seeing to the animals and Mabel would have a pan of porridge laced with fresh cream ready for him. Nothing in his life had ever tasted as good as that porridge did first thing.
The storm of the night before had blown itself out, leaving a few inches of snow behind it. A few inches was nothing – it was when it was a few feet and reached the top of the hedgerows that it became a problem. George and Ray and their wives were already in the cattle sheds when he left the house, the women seeing to the milking and the men mucking out. It was to the men he spoke. ‘I’m taking Jet and riding into Sunderland – there’s some business I need to see to.’
He was speaking the words before he realised that some time during his sleep he’d reached the decision. Perhaps it had always been there in the back of his mind.
George and Ray stared at him with some consternation. It wasn’t the best of times for the young master to be taking himself off on a trip. Still, he was the boss.
Christopher read their minds. ‘I’ll be back tonight, at the latest tomorrow, but it can’t wait, all right? I want to go before the weather closes in.’ Calling to Mabel, he said, ‘I’d like an early breakfast today, I’m leaving shortly for Sunderland.’
Born to Trouble Page 30
