A Nurse's Duty

by Maggie Hope

  ‘We can put him down the old lead mine shaft, him and his bike. We can, can’t we?’

  Nick considered for a moment before answering. ‘We can,’ he said slowly at last. ‘If we put him on the hay cart. The little hand-pulled one will take the load, I reckon. Right then, I’ll go and get it out.’ He didn’t even question the wisdom of doing it, she marvelled for a second. But there was no time to think about that. She went to the bottom of the stairs and listened. The children were quiet, fast asleep.

  ‘Come on then, it’s not far,’ she said as she re-entered the kitchen but Nick was already outside, bringing the handcart from the stable and opening the barn door. She ran after him and took the storm lantern from the wall just inside. She didn’t look at the body as she helped Nick heave it on to the cart.

  ‘I’ll pull the cart and you push the bike, missus,’ he said, very businesslike. He set off in the thickening snow, through the gate and up to the old waggon way. After a second’s hesitation she followed, puffing hard as she struggled with the motor bike up the gradient after him. It was easier on the waggon way, at least it was level and led directly to the old mine shaft. But when she got there, she began to tremble.

  The snow had abated and a frosty moon appeared from behind a cloud and illuminated the black hole of the shaft. Karen looked about her. Moonlight was shining on the broken windows of the building where generations of lead miners had bunked during the working week, huddled together for warmth and only going back to their steadings on the moor at the week’s end. She shivered, fancying the eyes of long dead men looking down on her, condemning her.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ she said, her teeth chattering together so that her words came out in a stutter. Her chest heaved, each breath seeming to tear at her lungs, so out of breath was she with the effort of pushing the heavy motor bike.

  ‘Aye, you can, missus,’ said Nick calmly. ‘Howay now, it’s nearly done.’ He wheeled the handcart to the edge of the shaft and turned it round, easily tipping its burden off. Karen listened numbly to the splash which came seconds later. She stood holding the bike until he took it from her and pushed it down the shaft after the body.

  ‘There now, it’s done,’ he said. ‘Let’s get back inside before we catch our deaths.’

  Fool, Karen told herself. There was no one there, no one but themselves, there hadn’t been anyone there for a generation or more. She took a few steps away and then turned back.

  ‘Just a minute, Nick,’ she said. Bowing her head, she stood for a moment in silence and he, seeing what she was doing, doffed his cap and followed suit. She prayed to God for forgiveness of all her sins and murmured the 23rd Psalm while Nick stood beside her, silently respectful.

  The journey back to the farm was difficult, the snow coming down so thickly again it was hard to see the way. Their earlier tracks were already obliterated. But they made it at last and Nick took the handcart back to the stable. Karen went inside and stood before the fire, staring into the flames. Had they done the right thing? Already she was regretting it, but it was too late now. All she could do was pray they would never be found out.

  Pray? She had no right to pray, she told herself, not after this night’s work. Mechanically she took the kettle and filled it from the bucket in the scullery. A slight sound made her look towards the staircase. Were the children awake? Had they heard something after all? She hurried upstairs to see. Both Brian and Jennie were fast asleep, Jennie with her thumb stuck firmly in her mouth.

  Coming back down she saw Nick was inside and the kettle beginning to sing. There was congealed blood on his forehead.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said, surprised to hear her voice was back to normal. ‘Let me look at your head.’

  ‘Nay, it’s all right,’ he demurred, but nevertheless he suffered her to wash his brow and bandage on an antiseptic pad. Then she made hot, sweet tea for them both. Nick sat rocking himself in the chair, back and forth, back and forth. She watched him, her own nerves at screaming point. It took all of her will power to hold herself together. Gradually, the warmth of the fire seeped into them.

  ‘Patrick … he must never know,’ she said after a while.

  Nick looked up in surprise. ‘Why no, missus, of course not. I doubt he couldn’t live with it, him being as he is. He’d have to confess and then we’d all be in bother.’

  Karen stared at him. Of course he was right. But she somehow had not realized Nick had read Patrick’s character so well. And he seemed so calm, though his face was pale beneath the bandage on his brow. There was no sign of his nervous tic.

  ‘I’ll go up to bed now, missus,’ he said, putting his mug down on the table. ‘By, I’m tired, I am. I’ll see you in the morning then.’ Nodding to her, he left the kitchen.

  Karen waited until the sounds from his bedroom quietened then went upstairs and checked again on the children. She tucked the quilt under Jennie’s chin and placed a hand on her brow. The skin was pleasantly warm to the touch. She took a candle and waved it from the window for a moment or two and then went through to the front of the house and did the same. If Patrick saw it and was close enough he might come back tonight. But she wasn’t worried about him, he would be all right. She undressed and washed her face and hands in the wash basin in their room before climbing into bed.

  She was weary to the bone. Tomorrow was time enough to consider the events of the night and what she had done and any regrets she had. For now she had to try to sleep. She would need all her reserves of energy, both mental and physical, tomorrow and in the days to come.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  A BRIGHT LIGHT was shining on Karen’s closed eyelids, dragging her from sleep. Groaning, she turned over on to her back and flung an arm across her eyes to shut out the light.

  ‘Mammy?’

  Karen opened her eyes to see Jennie standing by the side of the bed, shivering slightly in the cold. ‘Jennie,’ she said wearily, ‘come into bed before you freeze to death. I’ve told you not to get up until I have the fire going, haven’t I?’

  Jennie scrambled into the bed and burrowed down by her mother. ‘But I’m hungry, and Brian says he will take me out sledging after breakfast. Can I go, Mammy, can I? I’m not poorly any more, honest.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Karen closed her eyes again, filled with a great lassitude and longing to go back to sleep.

  ‘Where’s Daddy, Mammy? Has he got up already?’ Jennie persisted, and memories of the night before came flooding back to Karen, and with them worry and apprehension. She jumped out of bed and crossed to the window to open the curtains, blinking as the dazzling light intensified. The sun shone on a wide expanse of snow which stretched as far as she could see, only the top of the hedge and the rowan tree showing above it. Well, she thought, at least there can’t possibly be any tracks left from last night. No one will be able to tell what happened. Unless there are marks on the rowan tree …

  Hastily, Karen pulled on her clothes and tied one of Kezia’s thick woollen shawls round her shoulders. She would have to trudge through the snow to the gate and see. With a last look through the window she ran downstairs, first admonishing Jennie to stay where she was until she was called.

  ‘Morning, missus.’ Nick was sitting before an already lit fire, pulling on his boots. I’d better clear a path to the gate before breakfast,’ he said calmly. ‘There’s been a foot or two of snow during the night. Still, I don’t think it’ll stay long.’

  Karen watched him as he went to the door and out into the yard. In a moment she heard the scrape of his shovel as he began clearing a path. There had been not a sign of his nervous tic or any hesitation in his speech; he was back where he had been before Dave came. Why, it was almost as if Dave had never been. The thought gave her a curious sort of comfort and she got on with making the breakfast and when it was ready called the children to the table before following Nick out into the yard. He had already reached the gate and was standing, leaning on his shovel, regarding the rowan tree. She w
alked over to him, fearing what she might see.

  There was nothing, no bloodstain, no bits of hair stuck to it. Just a small piece of bark missing, the wood underneath showing pale against the brilliance of the snow.

  ‘That’ll soon cover, missus,’ said Nick, nodding his head in satisfaction. ‘By, I’m famished, I’ve properly worked up an appetite digging that snow. I’ll just see to the horses and then I’ll be in for me breakfast.’

  Of course, thought Karen as she went in, Nick had become used to violent death during the war. She herself had become used to death, but not like this. Suddenly she began to shake. Her head swam, her pulse raced. Somehow, she found a chair and sat down, lowering her head between her knees, and after a while it cleared. Reaction, she thought dully, reaction, secondary shock. But knowing what it was didn’t make it any easier. She had to pull herself together. She couldn’t let Patrick see her like this, he would want to know why and he must never know, never. She made herself swallow a cup of hot, sweet tea and willed her tight, aching muscles into relaxing. After a while, her pulse slowed and she began to feel better.

  Shortly after, Patrick returned. ‘Nick back then?’ he asked. ‘I might have saved myself the trouble of going after him. Never mind, I found a warm enough billet in that shepherd’s hut. I think someone had been there recently, there were signs.’

  ‘Were there?’ said Karen, thinking of Dave. Had he hidden out there before coming down to Low Rigg last night? Best not to think of Dave. No, she had to hold on to normality. ‘Yes, Nick came back during the night. It was good of you to go looking for him in that weather though, Patrick, I’m grateful to you. Thank the dear Lord the snow has stopped now. Well, come by the fire, you must be frozen.’ She turned to the stove and busied herself with the porridge, keeping her face averted from him. Oh, why had she been such a fool as to hide the body? Dead, he couldn’t hurt them.

  No, but the truth would have come out if he’d been found at Low Rigg, another part of her brain reasoned. No one would find him, no one went near the old mine these days. She was safe.

  Nick came in and she served the porridge. The children giggled together on the mat before the fire and the men ate steadily, fuelling themselves for the day’s work ahead.

  ‘No sign of Dave then?’ Patrick asked after Nick went out to the cowshed.

  ‘No, thank the Lord. I think he must have gone to Canada. He won’t come back. Even he must have realized there was no more money to be had from us.’ Karen kept her eyes on the dishes she was stacking as she spoke.

  The policeman came a few days later. Karen wasn’t even thinking of Dave, he was gone and he was never coming back. That was it, she told herself. But when Constable Peart came to the farm she was startled into wary alertness.

  ‘Morning Mr Murphy, Mrs Murphy,’ he said. ‘I’m doing a round of the dale. A bit belated really what with the weather. It’s an enquiry from Newcastle. It seems there was an attempted burglary at Jesmond and during the course of it a man was injured and has since died. One of the burglars was caught but the other got away on a motor bike and was seen heading this way. About a week ago that was. Have you seen any strangers about?’

  ‘No, no one,’ said Karen, rather too quickly.

  ‘Oh, but you remember, Karen. I said I thought someone had been using the shepherd’s hut on the high moor.’

  The constable sighed. ‘I’ll have to have a look up there now the snow has eased. But he’s likely long gone now. And if he’s been up there hiding out, I don’t think we’ll find him alive. Ten to one he’s laid out on the moor somewhere, likely under a drift, frozen to death. That would save the tax payer paying the hangman an’ all.’

  ‘Do you think it was Dave?’ asked Patrick after Constable Peart had gone.

  ‘Probably. But in any case, I don’t think we need worry about him any longer. If he’s not dead, the police will get him. He won’t dare come back here. He’s probably gone to Canada, that’s where he meant to go. We have to get on with our own lives, Patrick.’

  And hope to God no one goes down the old shaft, she thought silently. Though if they did, how could anything be traced back to the occupants of Low Rigg Farm?

  ‘We might have to buy in some feed, hay at least,’ said Nick one morning. ‘If the spring doesn’t come soon anyroad.’

  Karen bit her lip. The winter was dragging slowly on, one of the hardest and longest she could remember, and the stocks of animal feed were becoming lower and lower as were the supplies of flour and sugar and other staples they needed for themselves. She glanced at the bowl on the kitchen table. It held only three eggs. The hens had almost given up laying altogether and Karen was hard put to scrape the meals together. It didn’t matter that the carrier wasn’t managing to reach them through the drifted snow, they had no money to buy anything with and she was determined not to run up a bill on his ‘slate’, not unless it was an absolute necessity.

  Dave had taken just too much, she thought bitterly. He deserved the end he got. Going into the pantry, she scooped flour from the bin into the bread-making bowl and brought it out. There was no yeast, so she went back for the box of Lingford’s Baking Powder. She would have to make soda scones.

  Patrick, who was sitting by the fire, pulled a face. ‘I’m not fond of your soda bread,’ he said. ‘It’s not like my mother’s at all, it isn’t.’

  Karen’s temper flared. ‘If you were that fond of your mother’s bread maybe you shouldn’t have left Ireland,’ she said tersely.

  ‘I only said –’

  ‘Yes, I heard what you said. Why don’t you do something useful instead of complaining? Like taking the pony and going down into Stanhope to the store and bringing back some yeast?’

  Patrick looked hurt. ‘I would have offered but I thought we didn’t have the money,’ he said mildly. ‘Leave the bread, there’s half a loaf left and some porridge oats, we’ll manage till tomorrow. I’ll go down first thing, how’s that? I can’t go today, I promised Fred Bainbridge I’d help him mend the boundary fence.’

  Karen stared down at the packet of baking powder in her hand, then she took it back to the pantry. Coming back into the kitchen she saw Patrick was lacing his boots, ready to go out.

  ‘It’s no good, Patrick, we’ll have to get money from somewhere,’ she said flatly.

  ‘But where? You know there’s no work on the road this weather.’

  ‘I can work. I could get work down at the hospital.’

  Patrick finished tying his boots and rose to his feet, his face hard and unsmiling. ‘You will not,’ he said and walked out of the house before she had a chance to argue. Karen stared after him, regretting the way she had spoken to him earlier. It wasn’t his fault there was no work, she reminded herself. And it wasn’t his fault Dave had come back and taken their meagre savings. She had hurt him, she knew. Oh, why couldn’t she guard her tongue? Sighing, she went out into the yard and along to the hen house. The hens were to feed whether they laid or not. And at least things could only improve with the coming of spring.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  NEXT MORNING, PATRICK was withdrawn and quiet. Soon after breakfast he went into the yard and saddled Polly. Karen followed him.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  Patrick climbed on to the pony before replying. ‘You wanted some yeast, didn’t you? Well, that’s where I’m going.’

  ‘Patrick, about me going back to nursing –’

  ‘No.’

  He turned the pony and headed out of the gate. Karen watched him go in silence. The day was fine and the icy tang had gone from the wind. Behind her, water dripped from the roof of the house and as Polly trotted along she was kicking up clumps of mud. Patrick would be back at midday for something to eat, Karen told herself. As she went back into the house she remembered he hadn’t even said goodbye. In the kennel by the back door, Floss whimpered, miserable because he had gone without her.

  ‘Never mind, Floss,’ she said. ‘I know how you feel.’
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br />   Was he just going for the yeast or was he going to Wolsingham? Wolsingham loomed large and frightening in her mind. It was where the Catholic Church was, and priests and nuns and maybe Sean …

  Karen got through the day going from one job to another. She fed the hens and collected the eggs. They had responded to the break in the weather and there were a few more eggs, God be praised. She helped Nick with the sheep and the lambs in the home fold. She comforted Floss, still in despair at being left behind by Patrick. She fed the children and Nick when it was dinnertime and Patrick did not come home. Her actions became mechanical, her mind on Patrick. She was waiting minute by minute for him to come home; her ears ached with the strain of listening for him above the chatter of the children.

  The afternoon continued warm and Brian and Jennie played outside while she worked, Brian keeping an eye on his sister. They came running up to her and showed her where the crocuses were poking up above the slushy flower beds, purple and gold. Birds began to sing above their heads and at the bottom of the garden two robins pecked at each other furiously until one gave in and flew away. The victor preened himself busily and poked in the mud for worms.

  The sick feeling in Karen’s stomach intensified and she realized it was already teatime and there was no sign of Patrick. She boiled eggs for the children and Nick and cut up the last of the loaf. When Patrick did come home she would have to begin baking at once if they were to have bread for tomorrow. In any case, she ought to make some of the despised soda scones for supper. She brought the makings from the pantry and began, trying to think of nothing but the task in hand.

  It was half-past six when the clip-clop of hooves was heard in the yard. Karen was bathing the children in the tin bath before the fire in the kitchen. She had lifted Jennie out and was drying her on her lap but her hands stilled as she caught the first faint sound of the horse coming through the gate and she gazed up at the doorway to the scullery, though she told herself Patrick couldn’t possibly appear there yet.