The Cuckoo's Child

by Marjorie Eccles

  ‘Jessie, how could you have known?’ Una said gently. ‘He was happy for you to go this evening, and I’m sure he died quite peacefully. Look, let me make you a cup of tea . . .’

  But Laura had forestalled her and was already stirring the dying fire, lifting the kettle from the hob and putting it on to the coals, where it immediately began to sing. She went into the little scullery behind to look for the teapot and when she came back, she found Tom had followed them into the house. It took him only a moment to realize what had happened. ‘We’ll fetch Dr Widdop,’ he said immediately.

  ‘It’s too late,’ Jessie said, lifting her head. ‘But I’d like to see Matthew Pike. Please ask Dr Pike to come.’

  With all that had happened, it wasn’t until she was undressing that Laura remembered the address the speaker had given her. She took the folded paper out of her bag so that she would not forget to give it to Una the next day. It wafted open as she tossed it on to the dressing table and, catching a glimpse of what was written on the inside, she opened it fully. For several minutes she stared at it, then refolded it and put it back on the dressing table.

  Walter Thwaite’s funeral had taken place, but until Ainsley Beaumont’s body was allowed to be interred, those at Farr Clough were in a state of limbo, restless and unable to settle to anything. Gideon dashed at the crack of dawn to Cross Ings and returned late, as if the place would fall down without his continual presence, but even he could not stay down there all night. He seemed to have lost his taste at the moment for the friends he used to racket around with. Una, too, appeared not to know what to do with herself. There was a limit to the letters and articles even she could write, and she had been in a strange state of feverish excitement ever since the Halifax meeting. They sat around in the evenings in Una’s workroom, the three of them, reading, talking, playing the occasional game of cribbage . . .

  One evening, wondering how she was to get through the next hour or two without yawning her head off, Laura wandered over to the piano, opened the lid and began plonking out one of the latest jolly tunes, singing what words she could remember. Not much of a performance, but about as much as she was capable of, and it earned her a round of applause.

  Gideon looked at his sister. ‘Go on, Una, your turn now.’

  Una hesitated, then took Laura’s place. After a moment, she began to play. Laura didn’t recognize the piece. She was not musical, as Kelly from the Isle of Man had amply testified. Scarlatti perhaps? At any rate, it was one of those quick, rippling pieces that need a high degree of skill to play. She went to sit by the fire, listened and watched Una’s long white fingers flash over the keys. It was only a short piece, and as the last note finished, she sat with her head bent, her hands resting on the keyboard.

  ‘There now, that wasn’t so bad, after all, was it?’ Gideon said.

  ‘I’m out of practice.’

  ‘Not so bad!’ Laura exclaimed. ‘Gideon, how many people can play like that?’

  ‘I’m not all that good. But I was taught by one who played better than I ever could.’

  ‘And now that you’ve started again,’ Gideon said, ‘you go on. It’s the first step that counts.’

  She looked at him oddly, without saying anything, for a long time. ‘You’re right. The first step. I can do it, of course I can. I’ve stayed here too long.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘But it’s what I mean.’

  There were undercurrents here that escaped Laura.

  Una’s face flushed, her eyes were bright, ‘As soon as the funeral’s over, I shall go to London and work for the movement there. I spoke to Sylvia Pankhurst at the meeting and I know I would be welcomed with open arms. Write to your friend Eva and tell her she has another recruit, Laura.’

  ‘That would not be a good idea, Una.’ Gideon’s face was pale and set now.

  Laura saw what he meant. Una, she was afraid, was the stuff of which martyrs are made. Chaining herself to railings, breaking windows, prison, hunger striking . . . And what was all that about the piano?

  ‘What about Mother?’ Gideon said at last.

  ‘She has no obligations to Grandpa now. And I’ve none to her – she can marry Whiteley Hirst and be happy ever after. It’s what he has wanted for years, after all – and so has she, though she won’t admit it.’

  Twenty

  ‘Well, Jessie Thwaite, this is it,’ said Jessie to herself as she perched, despite the cold evening, on the low wall at the end of the plot her father had liked to call his bit of garden. ‘Time you made your mind up.’

  Not much bigger than a tablecloth, really, the garden, but it had been somewhere Walter could grow a cabbage or two, a few potatoes, some rhubarb, when he’d been fit enough to look after it.

  Below her, underneath the wall where she perched, was a big drop down on to a dirt footpath, eight feet of stone buttressing the street of houses. Alongside the path rushed a little brown beck. Beyond, the land sloped even further towards the town. She could see right across Wainthorpe and its mills and chimneys, up to the hills on the opposite side of the valley and the moors on top where her father used to take her to listen to the laverocks when she was a little girl.

  The funeral over, she had just finished parcelling up in brown paper Walter’s Sunday clothes: his best suit, shoes and shirt that he wore to chapel and when he was preaching; and his razor, his shaving pot and his badger-hair brush. He had possessed nothing else worth keeping, apart from his books. Every copper he had ever been able to save had been spent on the few second-hand copies he had treasured as if they were miser’s gold, but Jessie had no personal use for them. She was not much of a reader, especially not of John Wesley’s sermons. No doubt the minister would find someone who would be glad of everything. His Bible, Jessie kept for herself. She had no need of any other possessions to keep the memory of her father alive.

  The worst task finally done, she had methodically scrubbed, swept and polished the already spotless little house from top to bottom, blackleaded the grate with Zebo and polished the windows, inside and out, until they gleamed. All that expended energy and she was still left with the problem of what to do about her future.

  Jessie’s mother had died when she was seven, and Walter had brought her up single-handed. Nobody ever got the chance to pity the motherless little girl, however; somehow there were always decent clothes to wear and a hot meal on the table. Walter had taught himself to cook as well as any woman, and would come home from his work in the mill and bake their bread for the week from half a stone of flour, or set a stew in the oven to simmer all day. She always had a little cake for her birthday. But he didn’t spoil her; he saw to it that Jessie, as she grew older, learned to do her share in the house. She grew tall, strong, and capable and when her father’s health began to fail it was her turn to look after him. She had always known that Walter’s little business, selling newspapers and tobacco, had not belonged to him, but it had been a shock to learn that it was not a chapel charity fund which had set him up in the wood hut as she had thought, though the money had come via the chapel. Once, years ago, Ainsley Beaumont had had a share in ownership of the shoddy mill where Walter had worked, and where he’d contracted the disease which had finally killed him, and now she had learnt that it was he who had provided the means to set Walter up, swearing all members of the administrating fund at the chapel to secrecy on pain of not receiving any more of his generous yearly contributions. Anger had bubbled up in her when she learnt who her father’s benefactor had been – in effect the man in whose employ his health had been ruined. It made her realize why her father had never told her, but she considered his Christian charity and forgiveness had gone too far in allowing Ainsley to make this sop to his conscience – unless, of course, it was a case of heaping coals of fire . . . She sighed. No, her father had not been so devious, or vengeful, nor indeed had Ainsley Beaumont been a tyrant. But Jessie did not always find it easy to separate black from white.

  What was she to
do now? Working with Una, becoming involved with the Cause, had opened her eyes to other possibilities, another world. She wasn’t educated enough to do anything fancy, but the practical idea of becoming a nurse, put there by the new doctor, Matthew Pike, had insinuated itself into her mind when she had realized how fast her father’s health was failing, and had had to accept that she would soon be left on her own. Of course, Matthew Pike had only suggested this because . . . Well, never mind that.

  Her life stretched in front of her, hers to do with as she wished, but somehow it didn’t seem as appealing as she’d thought it would. A cold little breeze touched her and she hugged herself. Spring was coming fast to the valley. A haze of green misted the hawthorn hedges and by the path below a shaft of sunlight touched some hazel catkins, powdery gold against their black twigs. Come on, Jessie! Stop feeling sorry for yourself! And suddenly, with a laugh, she hitched up her skirts and scrambled over the wall, hung on and then let herself go. She still hadn’t forgotten how to land lightly. By the tumbling little beck, she broke off a few of the hazel twigs, then walked on towards Syke Beck Lane and round to the front of the house. Even Jessie balked at clambering back up the wall. When Matthew Pike arrived, the living room was cosy with the fresh fire she’d lit; she’d set the catkins in a stone jug on the green plush table cloth and had a pot of tea ready.

  If he had a pound for all the cups of tea he’d drunk since coming to Wainthorpe!

  Matthew had had a hard day, and had something on his mind, but after a while he became more relaxed, rocking gently back and forth in the rocking chair, cradling his cup of tea, very much at home in this little house, with this young woman he’d come to know so well, and hoped to know even better. ‘What are you going to do, have you given it any more thought?’ he asked presently.

  ‘It’s too soon, just yet,’ she answered evasively. ‘I might just as well stay on at Farr Clough as I am for the time being. I’ll have more spare time to help Una.’

  ‘I’ve something to tell you,’ he said abruptly, looking at her seriously, ‘I think I’m about to take the plunge and leave Wainthorpe.’

  Which was just what her heart did. Took a plunge. Plummeted like a stone. ‘But . . . I thought you liked it here. Working with Dr Widdop.’

  ‘He’s a fine doctor, a fine man. The patients love him, but when they send for ‘the doctor’ it’s him they want, Jess, not me. I’m not popular. I haven’t got a fancy car that makes them think they’re being looked after by somebody special, or clothes that make me look like a professional man, and God forgive me, I haven’t got a bedside manner – or not the one they think is appropriate. Altogether, Wainthorpers don’t think much of me.’

  ‘Well, you don’t always think much of them, either,’ said Jessie bluntly.

  ‘Not when they shut their minds to everything new, no.’

  All this was partly true, she knew, but he was not doing himself justice. ‘My father liked you. Better than Dr Widdop.’

  ‘And God bless him for that, but your father was a saint.’

  ‘Saints can sometimes judge other people very hard.’

  ‘Walter? Hard? Why, what have you done, Jess?’

  ‘Me? No . . . it’s not me.’ She topped up his tea. ‘Matthew, just give folks time. It’s only they’re used to Widdop, and his old ideas. They’ve both served Wainthorpe pretty well for a long time now.’

  ‘I know,’ he said grimly. ‘That’s the whole point. The men don’t like being told it’s not a good idea to drink all their wages away, so he doesn’t tell them, and the women – well, you know what I feel about that, Jess. We’ve talked about it often enough.’

  Oh yes. From the moment he had arrived in Wainthorpe, he had been trying to introduce the delicate matter of birth control, but she knew he felt himself up against a brick wall. He said again what he’d said a dozen times, ‘A desperate woman will try anything – hot baths, gin, or worse – to “bring themselves on”. It’s not looked down on, rather as a form of contraception. When will they learn prevention’s better than cure?’

  ‘And what about the men?’

  ‘Oh, they’re just as bad, or worse. They think it’s all up to the women.’

  ‘Well, Dr Widdop tries, too, you’ve told me.’

  ‘In a way. He should press his point more. But he’ll only go so far. The truth is, I suppose, he and I just don’t see eye to eye. I doubt if we ever will. It’s time to move on, Jess.’

  She stood up to take the teapot from the hob. Her face was red as she turned back and he said suddenly, ‘Come with me when I go, Jess. We make a good team, we have the same ideas, we think alike. We could, you know, start afresh, both of us, in a new place.’

  She had recovered herself a little. ‘And what about me being a nurse?’

  ‘Oh, that! You could do better than that. You could train to be a dispenser, to read prescriptions, mix medicines, roll pills.’

  He sat there, his hair like a collapsed haystack where he had run his hands through it. Besides a good brush and combing, it needed cutting, His tie was askew and one point of his collar turned up. He needed a woman to look after him. He was a clever man, and there were a lot of things he knew, but he didn’t seem to have learnt that yet.

  He said suddenly, ‘Something’s worrying you. What is it?’

  ‘Not worrying – just a bit of a mystery. Matthew, somebody came to see Dad that night, the night he died. Had a cup of tea with him.’

  ‘Sam Titmuss?’

  ‘No, he couldn’t come that night.’ She blinked. ‘That’s why I left Dad on his own . . .’

  ‘Jess, my love, he could have gone any time, you know that. He died peacefully.’

  ‘I know, and I’m thankful for it but . . . it was the cups and saucers, see.’

  ‘Cups and saucers?’

  ‘They were in the wrong cupboard, Mam’s best china, Indian tree pattern, in with the old everyday stuff. Somebody that didn’t know that had used them, washed them up and put them back in the wrong cupboard.’

  ‘Somebody from the chapel, perhaps? Does it matter?’

  ‘No, but it’s funny, nobody’s said anything about being here. I can’t help wondering if . . . if they’d been here when he died—’

  ‘This is not a road to go down, and I won’t have you choosing to,’ he said, standing up so suddenly he sent the chair swinging wildly on its rockers. He took her by the shoulders and looked into her face. She was nearly as tall as he. ‘It’s nothing, and you have better things to think about – such as the answer to my question. Have you forgotten already that I asked you to come away with me?’

  ‘Oh, and haven’t you forgotten something? I’m a respectable woman, Matthew Pike.’

  He saw her eyes come alive with laughter again, felt her warmth and generosity. ‘Of course I haven’t forgotten. I didn’t think I needed to say I love you. Why else would I ask you to marry me, you silly woman?’

  Twenty-One

  Cross Ings Mill was shut down for the day when eventually the master’s funeral came, and despite the decision Gideon stubbornly refused to alter – that his grandfather’s interment should be a quiet, private affair – many of Wainthorpe’s shops were closed as well, in recognition of the passing of one of its most notable townsmen. Amelia, magnificently dignified in new black, compelled to accept what she considered to be a very second-rate send-off, was slightly mollified by this, and by the number of people who turned out to witness in silent respect the passing of the short funeral cortège.

  The service was short, dignified and moving, but Laura was shocked to see, in the background behind those who stood at the graveside for the committal, the two policemen who were investigating the murder. What were they doing here? Did they come out of respect, or what? They could only be a painful reminder to everyone of the circumstances of Ainsley Beaumont’s death.

  And then, when the coffin had been lowered into the ground, the last prayers said, and the crowd was dispersing, she saw with a further shock someon
e else she recognized. ‘Is something wrong?’ asked Tom, following her fixed stare across the wreaths and flowers.

  ‘That man—’

  ‘Do you want to speak to him?’

  ‘I think I must.’

  ‘Well, then.’ Taking her arm, he strode rapidly after the man who was heading towards the gates. Laura called his name.

  He halted and turned, and when he saw who it was courteously raised his hat. ‘Miss Harcourt!’

  ‘I am surprised to see you here, Mr Empson.’

  ‘When I saw you – and Miss Beaumont – in mourning at the meeting, I made enquiries and decided I must come to pay my respects.’

  ‘We should talk,’ Laura said abruptly, ‘But not here. You haven’t met Mr Illingworth – Mr Empson.’

  They shook hands. ‘I was at the meeting when you spoke, Mr Empson. A fine speech.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The rest of the mourners were walking away from the grave. Most of those who had followed the coffin had left and now the family, the hand-shaking and receiving of condolences over, was ready to depart for Farr Clough. The two policemen were speaking to the editor of the local paper.

  ‘By all means let us talk, if you so wish. But perhaps now is not the best time,’ Empson said.

  ‘We must.’

  ‘A moment, if you please.’ Tom walked back quickly and spoke to Gideon, then to his mother. When he returned, he said, ‘They will go on without us. I know somewhere we can talk, if you wish to. Not the best place, perhaps, but I can’t think of anywhere else.’

  A little way from the cemetery, down in the town, was a very old, stone-slated building tucked into an awkward angle between two steep streets. The Tea Shoppe, though dark and very small, was a popular Wainthorpe rendezvous, with its flower embroidered cloths, delicate china and pastries oozing with cream; a haunt of those ladies who had time and money to spare for taking tea and cakes in the afternoon. Fortunately, so late in the day, only one of the half a dozen tables was taken.