Her whole stomach shifted as the child changed position, and as she had done so many times, she silently cursed its existence. She hadn’t been able to believe the non-appearance of her monthlies at first, but once she had accepted that the preventative measures she had been instructed in by an older actress at the beginning of her career in the halls had failed, she had tried everything she could to get rid of the thing growing inside her. Bottles of gin, scalding hot baths, jumping down half a flight of stairs and lifting weights so heavy she thought her eyes would pop out of their sockets, she had done it all. All but visiting one of the old wives, of whose dark arts every actress knew. She had seen too many girls die as a result of their ministrations over the years to go down that route.
She shut her eyes, exhaustion uppermost from the last few days spent on uncomfortable seats in lumbering, swaying coaches and nights tossing and turning on bug-infested mattresses in wayside inns. She was cold and tired and hungry, and already homesick for
London and the life she had led before this disaster had overtaken her.
She didn’t doubt that not a thing would have changed in Southwick; except, perhaps, the streets which had begun to spread eastwards from the village green five years before she left might have increased in number. But the glassworks, shipyards and all manner of industry that jostled for space with the lime kilns built to take the stone from Carley Hill would still be lining the river banks, and smoke and filth from the factories would continue to hang ominously in the air. Wearmouth colliery would still be dominating the western part of Monkwearmouth which led on to Southwick, and cinders and ash blown in the wind from the pit would inevitably find their way on to the washing of Southwick housewives.
Of course, the air could be thick with smog and the gutters running in filth in London, but it was different somehow, Esther thought drowsily. The taverns and coffee-houses, the theatres and exhibitions and concerts, the galleries and waxworks were all so vibrant and exciting, and the shops . . . Oh, the shops. Full of the latest Paris fashions and so elegant. Shopping being one of the few amusements considered suitable for unaccompanied women, she and her music-hall friends had often indulged themselves as far as their purses would allow. And if it had been one of the times when a group of upper-class young rakes had patronised the theatre the night before, looking for fun after the show, their purses might be very full indeed.
A small secret smile touched the corners of Esther’s mouth. The stories she could tell . . . But why shouldn’t she live life to the full? You were only here once. And when a woman got married she was finished. She was a slave to her husband, and unless she married well she was a slave to the home too. But in either case her freedom was curtailed, restraints came in their hundreds and all merriment was gone. Not that she intended to end up like one or two actresses she knew, reduced to working in one of Soho’s ‘pleasure halls’ where carnal depravity and unimaginable licentiousness was the order of the day. No, she would get out before her
looks began to fade, take herself off somewhere in the country and pose as a genteel widow to snare some yokel who was wealthy enough to see to it she didn’t have to lift a finger.
She snuggled deeper into her warm fur collar, the rocking and swaying of the coach adding to the overwhelming weariness. And then she slept.
‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, and it is not for us to fathom the mind of the Almighty, Mrs Skelton.’ Jeremiah Hutton placed a large bony hand on the shoulder of the little woman standing next to him. ‘Life and death is in His hands and His alone.’
A snort from the corner of the room where a wrinkled crone was sitting huddled in front of the glowing range with a sleeping baby on her lap caused Jeremiah to turn his head. This was the old grandmother, and he had had occasion to cross swords with her before. Shrivelled and skeletal, and possessing black teeth which protruded like witch’s fangs whenever she opened her mouth, she was nevertheless a force to be reckoned with and, in Jeremiah’s opinion, profane and godless. ‘You wish to say something, Mrs Woodrow?’ he said coldly, aware of Mrs Skelton at the side of him flapping her hand silently at her mother in an effort to keep the peace.
She might as well have tried to stop the tide from flowing in and out. ‘Aye, I do, an’ stop your flutterin’, our Cissie,’ the old woman added to her red-faced daughter. ‘All this talk of the Almighty an’ Him decidin’ what’s what don’t wash with me, Vicar. It weren’t Him who had Alfred standin’ on a plank weldin’ thirty feet off the ground, now was it? There’s not a day goes by that some poor so-an’-so don’t cop it in them blood yards, an’ you know it – but the owners aren’t interested in safety or workin’ conditions. Not them, in their fine houses with their lady wives takin’ the air in their carriage an’ pair.’
‘Mam,
please
.’
‘Weeks he’s bin bitin’ down on a bit of wood at night to keep from cryin’ out an’ frightenin’ the bairns, his legs smashed to pieces. You know – you saw ’em, Vicar. An’ when the gangrene set in an’
they brought the maggots to feast on his flesh, even then he didn’t give up. Fought to the last, Alfred did, poor devil. Well, he’s fightin’ no longer.’ The old woman’s rheumy gaze moved to the wooden trestle against one white-washed wall of the kitchen, a bucket standing beneath it to catch the drips from the body lying above. ‘God rest his soul.’
Jeremiah had remained still and silent throughout this discourse as befitted someone of his standing. He was not about to enter into a debate with Mrs Woodrow on the nature of her son-in-law’s untimely death; he had learned to his cost in the past that the irascible old woman had an answer for everything. His face impassive, he merely stared at her, wanting nothing more than to be gone from the two rooms the family of ten called home which smelled strongly of death and bleach. But his duty had brought him to the house to discuss the funeral the day after tomorrow, and he had never shirked his duty in his life.
He was grateful that most of his parishioners came from the better part of Southwick but there were a few, like this family, living in Low Southwick on the doorstep of the shipbuilding yards and marine engineering and glass bottle-works who worshipped at his church rather than attending a chapel or a smaller church in the district. Jeremiah looked on such folk as his cross to bear and prided himself that he did it with fortitude.
The tenement building in Victoria Street was all stairs and passages, and in this street and others like it, the front and back doors were always open, being thoroughfares for the numerous residents. It wasn’t unusual for each room of the two-up, two-down terraces to house entire families, but the Skeltons were fortunate inasmuch as they rented the downstairs of this particular house, comprising of the kitchen and front room, the latter used as the family’s communal bedroom.
Turning his pale-blue eyes on the bereaved widow, Jeremiah reminded her of something else she had to be thankful for as he ignored the old woman by the range. ‘It’s a blessing Adam and Luke are in employment, Mrs Skelton,’ he said stiffly, referring to the woman’s eldest sons who worked alongside their father in
Pickersgill’s shipyard, or had done until their father was careless enough to get himself killed. ‘It must be a great comfort to know you are sure of two wages coming in each week.’
There was another ‘Hmph!’ from the corner by the range. ‘Aye, an’ young Luke already havin’ lost a finger an’ him only sixteen.’
‘
Mam
.’
This time her daughter’s voice held a note that caused her mother to narrow her eyes and suck in her thin lips, but she said no more in the few minutes Jeremiah remained in the house.
When he emerged into Victoria Street, the afternoon light was fading fast and the earlier rain had turned to sleet, but Jeremiah stood breathing in several lungfuls of the bitterly cold air before he began to walk briskly northwards. The stench of death had got up his nostrils, he thought irritably. It would quite spoil his appetite for dinner.
His thick black greatcoat and hat and muffler kept out the chill, and by the time he had walked along Stoney Lane and turned on to the green, he was sweating slightly. The usual tribe of snotty-nosed and barefoot ragamuffins hadn’t been playing outside the houses from whence he had come today, much to his relief. The worsening weather had sent them indoors. And now, as he made his way through the streets of High Southwick towards the vicarage, he relaxed a little. There might be some rough types hereabouts, especially among the Irish contingent in Carley, but they couldn’t hold a candle to the scum in Low Southwick.
He gave a self-righteous sniff, tucking his muffler more securely in his coat although it was perfectly all right as it was.
That dreadful old hag back there, daring to address him without a shred of respect for his position! Even the Carley O’Rileys, bad as they were, held him in the esteem due to him. It was a great pity the two Skelton boys were of an age to be in employment, since the workhouse would have soon brought their crone of a grandmother to heel and taught her to respect her betters.
He passed a group of ruddy-faced men leaving their shift at the Cornhill Glassworks, and as one man they doffed their caps to him. Their deference went some way in soothing his ruffled feathers,
but he was still smarting a little as he opened the wrought-iron gates which led on to the drive of the vicarage.
He regretted not taking the pony and trap now, but the last time he had used it to visit one of his parishioners in Low Southwick Bess had been as skittish as a foal on the way home, something obviously having upset her. Sprites of Satan, some of those children were. But it gave emphasis to his standing, the horse and trap. He must remember that in the future when dealing with such as Mrs Woodrow.
In the last few minutes, the sleet had turned into fat flakes of snow which were beginning to settle as the temperature dropped, but Jeremiah’s mind was on something more serious than the weather as he reached his front door. The reverence given to a man of the cloth such as he, was surely a courtesy of the utmost importance and he could not, he
would
not allow the common rabble to display such impertinence. For their own sakes. Where would society find itself, if dishonour and insolence were allowed free rein? The Woodrow woman’s indictments against the shipyard owners – several of whom he counted among his personal friends – could not be tolerated. It was his clear Christian duty to have a quiet word in the necessary ears. It stood to reason, if the father had been stirring up anarchy within his own home, the sons must be tainted with the same brush. The old grandmother couldn’t have come to such conclusions on her own, she was merely a woman, after all. She must have heard talk. Rebellious talk.
Jeremiah breathed in deeply, exhaling slowly as he turned to look back over the pebbled drive and neatly manicured lawns and flowerbeds either side of it. The vicarage was a substantial building of three storeys and set in half-an-acre of ground. It was situated a few hundred yards from the main village, the church rising up behind it like a sentinel keeping watch over the grids of streets running down to the River Wear. He had been born in the master bedroom thirty-eight years ago, and apart from his time at ecclesiastical college he had never lived anywhere else. Just weeks after he had left college, his father had contracted cholera from one of his parishioners in Low Southwick, and within days he had died,
his mother passing away of the same disease within the week. Jeremiah had remained in good health, something he had felt was God’s provision, especially when the bishop of the diocese, a family friend, had made it plain he wished him to continue in his father’s place.
Taking off his hat, Jeremiah banged it against his leg before turning and opening the front door. Immediately a strong smell of beeswax and lavender oil met his nostrils, and as he stepped into the tiled hall he exhaled again, this time with a feeling of satisfaction. His home was one of order and discipline – he would not tolerate anything else – and with his wife being of like mind, their existence together was harmonious. When the bishop had made it clear he expected Jeremiah to find a wife post-haste in view of his changed circumstances, introducing his niece at a dinner party shortly afterwards, Jeremiah had taken the hint and within twelve months he and Mary were wed. It didn’t matter to him that Mary was plain and severe in outlook – probably the reason she’d had no suitors at the age of twenty-five – she was domesticated and of good breeding and perfectly suited to her role as a vicar’s wife.
Such was his passionless nature he could have continued quite happily through life without a mate, but he had performed his husbandly obligations every so often and in due course Mary had given birth to their son, John, five years after they were married – a respectable interval, they had both felt. Matthew had followed two years later, and the twins, David and Patience, four years after that. By unspoken mutual agreement they had decided that their procreation function in the sight of God was adequately discharged, and both had felt relief that that side of marriage – obligatory but slightly distasteful – was over.
He was taking his coat off when Bridget, their little maid, came through the door at the end of the hall which opened into a corridor leading to the kitchen and servants’ quarters. His father had employed a cook and a maid, and Jeremiah had grown up in a very comfortable household along with his sister Esther, but his initial salary as a young vicar had not been such to afford servants. When he had married Mary, the bishop had seen to it that
his niece could continue to live in the manner to which she was accustomed, and so Bridget, her mother Kitty who was cook and father Patrick who took care of the grounds and any odd jobs, had joined them. That had been twelve years ago and Jeremiah didn’t pay the little family a penny more than when he had first taken them on. He considered that they were adequately fed and clothed and had a roof over their heads; their wage was something he secretly resented.