Authors: Tania Anne Crosse
‘Never be afraid to come to us if you need to,’ Rose added sincerely, and then Mr and Mrs Warrington, no longer Ling’s employers, walked down to their waiting carriage and headed home to Fencott Place. The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the rumble of the wheels grew fainter as the future Ling’s life might have held crumbled into dust.
She shivered, and Barney put his arm around her, his shoulders straightened with pride. ‘Come along, Mrs Mayhew!’ he said, grinning encouragingly.
Ling forced a smile to her lips as she gazed into her husband’s exultant face. Barney had got what he wanted. Not that he would ever have wished for it to have happened in this way. And overnight he had become the breadwinner for not only himself and his new wife, but her mother and sister as well. It wasn’t going to be easy, but Barney had never baulked at the sudden, huge responsibility, and Ling blessed him for it.
They turned for home. No one would follow them for five or ten minutes, allowing the newly-weds a little privacy.
Ling linked her arm through Barney’s and shivered as she kept as close to him as she could. ‘That wind’s bitter.’
Barney nodded. ‘I’m glad I weren’t working out in it this arternoon. And the quicker we walks, the warmer we’ll be and the sooner we’ll be home.’
They hardly spoke, saving their breath to hurry along as fast as they could. But at least it wasn’t raining so they were thankful for small mercies! It wasn’t unusual for a couple to wed without celebration, since very few could afford to provide such a luxury. So they went straight to the lowly Southcott abode which was where they were to spend their future life together.
‘Open it then,’ Barney urged as Ling put the envelope Seth had given her on the rustic wooden table.
Ling’s mouth firmed to a thin line. The only wedding present she wanted was to have her father back, and no one could give her that. But it was kind of Seth and Rose, especially after all their generosity in the past, and so she carefully opened the envelope.
‘Twenty-five pounds,’ she mumbled.
‘What!’ Barney’s eyes almost stood out on stalks as he snatched the money from her. ‘Half a year’s pay, give or take! We could’ve had some sort o’ do arter all!’
The taste of bitterness galvanized Ling’s tongue into action. ‘Not with my father not cold in his grave, we couldn’t,’ she snapped, whisking the notes out of Barney’s hand. ‘And we’ll need all this. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve four mouths to feed.’
‘But . . . what about Fanny?’ Barney asked hesitantly. ‘She be old enough to go into service now.’
‘
Service!
’ Ling’s eyes glinted like fire. ‘I’ll
not
see her in service. Besides, no one would take her on. I know as well as anyone that she’s somewhat lacking in wit. And even if they did, she might be, well, taken advantage of. I know it’s illegal now below the age of sixteen, thanks to the efforts of people like Mr Warrington, but—’
‘Oh, Ling, I didn’t mean to upset you!’ Barney’s forehead folded with remorse. ‘I were only thinking of possibilities. Us’ll manage, just see if we doesn’t. And us’ll only use this if us really has to. But we’d better hide it somewhere safe.’
Ling nodded, and then found herself in her husband’s embrace, his strong arms soothing her tumbled emotions. She felt all at odds with herself, but at least she knew she could rely on Barney’s steadfast strength. She pulled away and began to set the table for tea, burying herself in the practical task and trying to seal her mind to her grief.
‘Your father were proud o’ you today,’ Mary said that evening, smiling as she took herself upstairs to bed, since Barney was to share Ling’s mattress downstairs. They could hardly throw her mother out of the marital bed and expect her to sleep on the floor instead. And, of course, Fanny had her small bed upstairs as well, so the cramped kitchen-cum-living-room offered the only solution.
Barney dragged the mattress from its daytime home behind the settle while Ling took the bedding from the cupboard where she stored it each morning. If it had not been for the gale blowing straight in under the two outside doors it might have been quite cosy, so Barney got down on his hands and knees and stuffed some old newspaper tightly into the gaps. Then he came towards his wife, his eyes flaming with ardour.
‘Now then, Mrs Mayhew,’ he murmured thickly.
He opened the door to the range firebox and the golden heat flooded into the room. Ling watched as he stripped off his clothes, his stocky build strong and dependable and yet firm of waist. Not the perfect athlete, but familiar and comforting. Her Barney, who had loved her ever since she could remember. Her stomach cramped tightly, not with the excitement of that balmy September evening when her mind had been hazed with alcohol, but with apprehension and regret. This, the act of love between herself and Barney, was what had killed her father. She took no pleasure from it, though Barney’s inexperienced body was gentle enough as he satisfied his need. He cuddled her afterwards for a few minutes, but soon he was asleep and breathing deep and heavily.
Ling lay with her eyes refusing to shut, memories of the day, her wedding day, wandering unbidden into her mind. Seth and Rose, how kind they had been. Oh, how she longed to be back . . . Fanny, pretty as a picture, and her mother’s smile. But what was it she had said? Your father was proud of you today? Should it not have been
would have been
proud? Ling sighed with dejection. Proud? Of what she had done? No. She was ashamed. And she was going to have to live with it for the rest of her days.
Ling stared at the table her mother had just set for dinner. Since the day her husband had died, Mary had shuffled aimlessly about the cottage like an old woman, unable to perform the merest task and barely uttering a word. This was the first time she had lifted a finger in the home of which she had once been so proud. It was as if her misery had blanked out the person that was Mary Southcott and now she was reaching the other side of her personal hell. Or was she? Ling gulped down her horror as she realized her mother had set five places.
‘Mother,’ she croaked from her dry throat, ‘you’ve laid for one too many.’
‘No, cheel. ’Tis right. You and Barney, Fanny, and me and Arthur.’
Ling felt the ice trickle down her spine. Oh, dear God. Her mother . . . She must find the right words. She took Mary gently by the arm. ‘You know,’ she faltered, her voice quivering, ‘Father’s . . . he’s not coming back.’
But Mary’s face lit up with a serene smile. ‘He’ll be in later. He just wanted to get that drill hole finished.’
Ling held her breath, pinching her bottom lip between her forefinger and thumb as her heart sickened. ‘You just sit down there, nice and warm,’ she said tenderly, directing her mother to the settle beside the range. ‘Fanny, make some tea, would you?’
But the girl tugged on Ling’s sleeve. ‘Does she think Father’s still alive?’ she whispered, her eyes wide with confusion.
Ling studied her sister’s appalled expression. She had hardly absorbed the shock of it herself, and now here was Fanny . . .‘Yes, I think she does,’ she answered gravely. ‘And I think, for now at least, we must leave her be. It’s just her way of being sad. Do you understand, Fanny? Just be nice to her, eh?’
The younger girl frowned, and Ling felt her own heart sigh. What should she do for the best? It had been hard enough explaining to Fanny that their father was gone, but her simple mind had accepted that he had simply gone to heaven. But if Mary was so lost in despair that she was beginning – Ling hardly dared to think it – to lose her mind, Ling wondered how she could cope. She prayed it was just one moment of aberration.
It wasn’t. Over the next few weeks, it seemed that her mother was slowly sinking into a comfortable world of her own, a soothing universe where Arthur still lived and breathed and all was well. Ling couldn’t bear to destroy it for her. Surely, it was better to leave her mother rocked in a cradle of consolation than to spear her with the brutal truth?
‘I’m just going out to meet your father,’ Mary announced one miserable evening when rain was lashing against the front of the cottage.
‘Oh, no!’ Ling chided softly. ‘Father wouldn’t want you going out in this. No sense in both of you getting soaked.’
She cringed at the pretence on her tongue, and, putting her arm about Mary’s shoulders, led her back to the rustic settle, something she seemed to be doing several times a day of late.
‘Now, you get on with knitting this blanket for the baby,’ she smiled, placing the long needles and ball of wool in her mother’s hands. ‘Father’ll be back soon.’
She caught the frown on Fanny’s face as her sister quizzed her from across the table. Fanny, who had always venerated her elder sibling, was beginning to question her judgement. And perhaps she was right. But what could she do but follow her own instincts? She just prayed that time would heal, and perhaps the arrival of the infant would bring her mother back to reality.
The weeks dragged by. Ling was nearly six months gone now, her swelling stomach inhibiting her movements as she slaved over the laundry tubs. She couldn’t let her mother out of her sight, as Mary was for ever wandering off ‘to meet Arthur’. Ling would lie awake at night, increasingly uncomfortable on the lumpy mattress on the floor. Beside her, Barney was lost in a deep slumber after his hard day’s toil at the quarry. She couldn’t fault him as a husband, working long hours for extra money. There was demand enough for granite at the moment, but who knew what the future held? Despite the untouched nest-egg, Barney never asked for a few pennies to go for a pint with his mates. Never complained that he was providing not only for his wife, but for her mother and sister as well, and Ling loved him for it. When he made love to her, she allowed him to gently satisfy his lust. It meant nothing to her, the passion swept away. Her joyful love for life had slowly seeped into oblivion, leaving an empty shell, and she only had herself to blame.
‘You don’t mind if I have a little lie down on your bed, do you, Mother?’ she asked wearily one evening when Fanny was already asleep upstairs. ‘My back’s aching proper badly.’
Mary glanced up meekly from clicking her knitting needles. ‘Of course not, cheel. You go on up.’
‘You all right?’ Barney frowned, and his gaze rested anxiously on the dark smudges beneath his wife’s eyes. ‘You shouldn’t be doing all that washing. I thinks you should stop. Perhaps ’tis time to dip into that money.’
Ling’s eyes flashed at him, but the fiery light in them faded almost at once. ‘Perhaps,’ she mumbled, and she plodded up the creaking wooden staircase.
A wild, glacial north-easterly was driving across the open moor and whistling beneath the roof slates. Ling was relieved to take the weight off her feet, but her back was hurting miserably, and she’d felt a dull ache in her lower abdomen all afternoon. Barney was right. But at the back of her mind she knew that working intolerably hard was her way of punishing herself for her father’s death. But perhaps it was time to put her guilt aside and concentrate on the precious life that would make its appearance in three months’ time.
Oh, when would the spring come? It had seemed an interminably long, hard winter with, Ling had read in the paper, soup kitchens opening in Tavistock to feed the growing numbers of unemployed as farmers faced lean times and virtually all the mines that had once peppered the area had closed. She supposed they were lucky that Barney was still working, that they were permitted to harvest peat from the moor for fuel, and that they could supplement their frugal diet with vegetables from the garden and eggs from their hens. But making ends meet was a constant, wearing struggle.
Ling tossed and turned, but she was too cold to settle. The cosy warmth downstairs suddenly seemed overwhelmingly appealing, and perhaps if she put a cushion behind her back . . .
She stopped dead half way down the stairs. ‘Where’s Mother?’ she demanded stiffly.
Barney looked up, his eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘Went to use the privy.’
‘How long ago?’
Even in the dim light from the tallow candles on the table, Ling saw the colour drain from Barney’s face. ‘I’m . . . I’m not certain,’ he faltered, his eyes widening. ‘I were concentrating on this yere book you gave us.’
They both bolted to the door, grasping their coats as they went, and then struggled across to the little wooden sheds on Big Tip. The biting, arctic gale threatened to have them over, tearing at their clothes and whipping loose strands of Ling’s hair about her face. She hardly noticed. All she wanted was to find her mother, but she was nowhere to be seen and the row of closets was empty.
Ling’s desperate moan was drowned by the howling squall. She turned a full circle, peering out into the pitch darkness and buffeted by the powerful gusts that swept unchecked across the moor. It was only Barney’s strong arm about her that stopped her from being blown over.
‘Perhaps she called into Widow Rodgers!’ he yelled in her ear.
Clinging on to Barney, Ling staggered back towards the cottages, her eyes searching the inky obscurity that enveloped them. But Mary wasn’t at her neighbours. They tried all the other cottages to no avail, a crippling panic gripping Ling’s belly more cruelly with every passing second. She chose to ignore it. All that mattered just now was her mother.
People were emerging from their cottages, wrapped up against the bitter, angry wind that swooped around them, for everyone knew how the loss of her husband had turned Mary Southcott’s mind. Hurricane lamps swung precariously in the vicious, icy blasts, and strong bodies were bent against the driving force of the storm. All the menfolk, Ambrose, Sam, even Harry Spence who was never known to help anyone but himself, and Mr Warren the manager, were braving the weather to join in the search.
‘’Tis no place for you out in this,’ Barney stated fiercely, but Ling straightened her back, her mouth set in that mutinous way Barney knew all too well. ‘All right,’ he conceded through tight lips. ‘But you stay next to me.’
She did. They searched along the base of Big Tip in case Mary had lost her way and fallen over the edge, scrambling over the piles of discarded granite by the wavering light from each lamp. When they rounded the far end to comb the other side, they were exposed to the full fury of the gale. It began to rain then, icy shards that drove into their faces like tiny arrows, running down the back of their necks and drenching them to the skin. Not a man gave up as they slipped and slithered over the rocks. Ling clambered on all fours, cursing the sodden hem of her skirt. Her dripping hair was a tangle about her head, lashing into her eyes as she desperately searched the tip of waste rock.