‘You old witch!’ It was difficult to tell who was the more surprised – the solicitor or Hilda – when Betsy jumped up from the sofa and pointed at Polly’s mother with a shaking hand, her face scarlet with outrage. ‘You’ve schemed and connived for this all along, you wicked old biddy! Always artful and calculating from a little lass, you were.’
‘How dare you!’
It was clear Hilda couldn’t believe her ears. ‘How dare you speak to me like that. You’re dismissed! Now, this instant! Get your things and be out of this house before nightfall.’
‘Just a moment.’ Polly’s voice was clear and low, but although she tried very hard she couldn’t keep it from shaking. That Frederick had done this, left her penniless and utterly reliant on her mother, was an act of pure spitefulness that was difficult to take in. Had his conscience troubled him at the last? Had it been the will that had been on his mind those last few hours when he had tried to tell her something? Whatever, if it wasn’t for this life inside her, this child conceived in lust and fear, she would have been free to walk out of this house with no responsibilities and no ties. ‘I am the mistress of this house and I say who stays or goes.’
‘I think not.’ Hilda was triumphant, her face glowing with satisfaction. She had worked hard for this moment, oh, she had, she had. Always bolstering Frederick’s outsize ego, flattering him, listening to his endless discourses on this, that and the other and telling him how wonderful he was. Men were fools – the lot of them were fools. But the years of biting her tongue and taking a back seat had been worth it.
It was all hers
. ‘You heard what Mr Johnson said and they were Frederick’s wishes, it’s all down in black and white, signed and sealed. Isn’t that right, Mr Johnson?’
‘Well—’
‘And you were never a wife to him, not really. Doesn’t this will reflect that, Mr Johnson?’
‘I don’t think—’
‘So it is mine, and no court in the land will say different!’
‘I’m expecting a child, Mother.’
It was said quietly but it had all the power of an explosion in their midst. For a moment Hilda was absolutely still, and then she seemed to swell with fury before she ground out, ‘Never! Never in a hundred years. I know my brother, I know what he’s told me. He hasn’t touched you in years, so don’t you dare say different, girl.’
‘I’m no girl, and I am expecting a baby, which will become self-evident in a few months.’ Polly was endeavouring to keep calm but it was hard. This woman standing in front of her was her
mother
. There were women all over the country – nice, gentle, normal women – who tried for a baby for years and never fell, and yet this woman in front of her, this unnatural, cold,
horrible
woman, had had two babies almost without trying. Where was the justice in that? ‘And while we’re on the subject, Frederick is not – was not – your brother,’ Polly added coldly. ‘In fact, he was no relation to you at all, so even if I wasn’t expecting a child, I think you might find you had no case at all in the courts. I was his wife, his
legal
wife.’
‘It’s not his.’ Hilda was speaking through clenched teeth and the look on her face was terrible. ‘I know it’s not his. You’ve a fancy man, you little—’
‘That’s enough.’ Mr Johnson was an unlikely champion, but if the truth be known, he had never liked Frederick Weatherburn, and he liked his stepsister less. This little lassie with the poignantly beautiful face had more in her than first met the eye, and he liked her. He couldn’t understand how she had come to be married to an arrogant, self-opinionated man like Frederick Weatherburn, but he liked her. ‘The terms of the will are most explicit, Mrs Farrow, and as I said, very straightforward. The child Mrs Weatherburn is carrying is the sole beneficiary of its father’s estate.’
‘It’s not his
. It’s not his, is it, girl, and I’ll prove it if it’s the last thing I do.’
‘You shut your lying mouth—’
Betsy’s words were cut off by Polly’s restraining hand on her arm. Polly didn’t speak; she merely stared at her mother with eyes that spoke her disdain and dislike, and as Hilda made a step towards her – Ruth immediately springing up to stand by her sister – she moved not a muscle. There was a single moment when the two women’s eyes caught and held – Hilda’s cruel and bitter and Polly’s unfaltering – and then Hilda turned and swept out of the room, her black linen dress seeming to crackle with the rage that was consuming her.
She would stay at the farm until the child was born. As the door closed behind her mother, Polly knew her course was set. Once the baby was born it would be well looked after by Betsy and its future as Frederick’s supposed child would be secure; it wouldn’t need her and she couldn’t stay. She couldn’t love anything that came from Arnold and she wouldn’t wish any child to suffer an unnatural mother as she had. She would leave, putting the last years behind her and reaching out for a new life somewhere else. Somewhere far away where the past would have no hold on her.
And Luke? As she felt Ruth’s arms about her waist and heard her sister telling her, her voice fierce, that she loved her and was here for her, Polly’s heart felt as though it was breaking. Luke would never want her, not now.
And then her own arms went about Ruth, and she felt Betsy and Emily patting her back, their voices joined to Ruth’s in support, and she found herself thinking that comfort came at the oddest times and in ways you’d never think of . . .
When Polly awoke the next day, Christmas Eve, the weak rays of a winter sun were slanting in through the window on to the scrubbed floorboards, catching tiny particles of dust in their golden beams. She lay still for some moments, knowing that as soon as she moved the sickness would come. Betsy and Ruth had tried to insist, the night before, that she must have the day in bed – several days in bed – to recover from the exhaustion of looking after everyone the last weeks, but she wouldn’t do that. It was nice of them and she appreciated the thought and the concern for herself and the baby, but she knew she wasn’t yet sufficiently at peace with herself to be alone for any amount of time.
It would come – she was determined it would come, and that one day she would be able to put the past with its demons behind her for good – but not until after the child was born.
It was the right decision to have the baby, but . . . She twisted restlessly in the bed, her head aching and the sickness rising. She couldn’t wait for the next nine months to pass so that she was free of this child growing inside her. It wasn’t the baby’s fault – it hadn’t asked to be born, she knew that – but nevertheless, every day she was pregnant was a day which tied her to the farm and delayed her departure.
Once up and dressed, Polly spent the day with Betsy preparing the hampers for the farm staff, and at five o‘clock in the evening she left Ruth and Emily decorating the sitting room with holly her sister had gathered from the hedgerows that afternoon, and walked through to the big stone-flagged kitchen. Hilda had stayed in her room all day, refusing to join in any of the preparations for Christmas and declining to talk to anyone. Polly – along with the rest of the household – didn’ t mind that. It was when her mother
did
open her mouth that life got unpleasant.
She had popped her head round her mother’s bedroom door before going downstairs earlier in the day, looking long and hard at the grim-faced woman lying in the big feather bed. ‘Two things, Mother.’ Hilda had stared at her but made no response whatsoever. ‘If you want to continue to play the invalid I have no objection as long as you stay out of everyone’s way and see to the cleaning of your room yourself, and that includes the washing of your bedclothes and so on. Betsy will continue to serve you your food, but that is all. The other thing is that you may have Frederick’s suite on the other side of the house if you wish. I have no desire to live in it, and as it is large and can be made into a small sitting room as well as a bedroom, it would perhaps suit you better. I shall continue to sleep in Gran and Grandda’s old room.’
Her mother’s eyes had widened at the offer and it was clear from Hilda’s face that she couldn’t understand her daughter’s generosity. Polly did not enlighten her mother as to the reasons for her magnanimity. True, Frederick’s wing was spacious and luxurious by any standards, with its dressing room and night closet, but to Polly it was a symbol of her married life and she hated it. Also – and here Polly’s thoughts had a certain wryness – tucked away on the other side of the house, Hilda was less likely to try and interfere with the rest of the household.
It had been the custom of Frederick’s father and a tradition Frederick himself had upheld to give the families on the farm a hamper each Christmas, and this year Polly was adding a gold sovereign for every man, woman and child, despite the fact that she had been surprised how little money was in her husband’s bank account. After the solicitor had been paid for his services and the funeral expenses had been taken into account, the amount was meagre for the size and prosperity of the farm at just over two hundred pounds, although Croft had assured her the master had recently invested in some prize cattle as well as new machinery, so it could be that.
Promptly at five o’clock there came a knock at the kitchen door, and Croft and his children, along with Enoch’s two sons and their families, filed into the room. The children were all clutching their yule-doos – baby figures made with Christmas dough with their arms folded across and two currants for eyes – which they had made with Lotty earlier, and as Polly’s eyes rested on Lotty’s youngest, she felt the same pain she had experienced some days earlier as she saw his chubby little hands tight round the dough figure. She remembered past Christmas Eves with her granny and Ruth, when they had savoured the smell of the cooking yule-doos, and then taken them to bed to eat first thing on waking Christmas morning. She had imagined doing the same thing for her bairns one day. . .
Suddenly Polly wanted to cry, and it horrified her, but as she made her little speech of thanks and gave the delighted families their sovereigns and hampers, no one would have guessed from the missus’s smiling face the effort it was taking.
And then they had all gone and she let herself sink down on to a kitchen chair, Betsy fussing around her like an old woman and scolding her for doing too much after glancing anxiously at her mistress’s drawn white face.
So much change in such a short time . . . Polly let her eyes wander round the warm, sweet-smelling kitchen in which the fire in the brightly shining range dominated the room with its glow. And this was just the beginning. But she would see it through. She squared her slim shoulders and thought again of Lotty’s little one before nodding to the thought. Aye, she had to see it through, and then she would have done all she could and she would go.
She would brush the dust of Sunderland off her boots and she would not look back.
Part 4 – The Child 1912
Chapter Twenty-one
During the next few months a number of events happened that rocked the country. The terrible loss of life as the
Titanic
– the great ship which was proclaimed the pride of the White Star fleet and unsinkable because of its sixteen watertight compartments – sank within hours of hitting an iceberg shocked the nation. More than fifteen hundred passengers and crew died in the icy waters of the North Atlantic, and as more facts emerged – the overwhelming one being the richer you were, the more chance you had had of surviving – people got angrier and angrier. ‘Same the whole world over,’ Britain’s working class muttered under their breath. ‘One law for the rich and one for the poor.’
The big freeze which had taken hold in November continued relentlessly, the temperatures dropping so low in the beleaguered north that two per cent of the population were dying weekly from cold. This was one of the components which fuelled the strikes which paralysed the economy – troops being called in yet again against the coal miners, ostensibly to quell riots. A hundred thousand dockers were talking of strike action, knowing another transport dispute could bring the United Kingdom to a standstill.
And all this against a background of increasing unrest by the nation’s women; the cabinet being split down the middle on women’s suffrage as it turned more militant, and the police raiding the offices of the Women’s Social and Political Union as things turned nasty. With thousands of people attending protest rallies in Ulster against British government proposals to give Ireland Home Rule – folk came in farm carts, traps and charabancs, preceded by drums playing in the rain – the first few months of 1912 were ones of great trial and civil discontent. Indeed, many politicians likened Britain to a powder keg primed and ready to explode.
In Sunderland, especially where the farmers were concerned, the weather had produced the hardest and longest winter anyone could remember. On the more modest farms and smallholdings, where money was scarce and profits nonexistent most of the time, animals were simply dying, and in some cases whole families too. Others chose survival and the workhouse, although that could be termed a living death for many. Snow, sleet, packed ice and then more blizzards, with the occasional slight thaw making conditions ten times worse when it froze again, was the north-east’s lot, and it was inexorable.
The winter seemed even more endless to Polly than most, her changing shape making it impossible to get out most of the time in the icy, frozen world about her. By her twenty-second birthday, at the end of April, she was five months pregnant and had felt the baby move inside her. She had been dreading that moment almost as much as she was dreading the time when Arnold’s body was discovered, but in the event, although it had felt strange when she had felt the flutters deep in her womb, it had not repulsed her as she had expected. As the weeks had passed she’d found she was managing to detach herself from the fact that the child she was carrying was Arnold’s. It had happened gradually, but she welcomed the almost stoical placidity that had come with her increasing waistline. If she had continued to feel as she had done in the first weeks she had realised she was pregnant, she doubted she would have survived nine months of it. The calmness could not last and she knew it, but for the moment she felt as though she were existing in an emotional bubble.