The Tinker's Girl Read online

  'Yes, I know; in more ways than one.'

  'Well, it's up to you: you can keep him if you like, you have a choice.'

  'Oh.' Bruce now stepped to the side, saying, 'Get yourself away; I'm not going through that again.' Then he added quickly, 'Will you be at home for the holidays?'

  'Oh yes; I hope so. And for some good long time afterwards if I have my way; so, be seeing you soon.'

  'Yes; yes.' Bruce watched him tap the horse with his heel, setting the animal into a trot; then he immediately turned about and went back into the cottage.

  As soon as he opened the door the broadside came at him: 'Been enjoying yourself out there? Glad you've got something to talk about. And I'm not allowed to see your visitors these days, am I?'

  'Well, Ma' - he was hanging his cap on the back of the door, and he stayed his hand on it as he looked down the room towards her - 'they would have nothing to talk about if they came into this house, now would they?'

  'Well, who's to blame for that, eh?'

  He was about to go towards the fire to warm himself when he caught sight of the bottle on the delph rack; and he turned to look enquiringly at Jinnie, who was standing at the far end of the table working up the pastry for the dumplings; but she kept her eyes fixed on her work as she said, 'Mrs Stevens gave me some things for Christmas instead of giving me the recipe for the cake, as I asked her. She gave me a cake and some currant stottie bread, together with butter and cheese and a bottle of wine.'

  'Two bottles of wine.' This came from the bed. 'Your creature outside has one to himself, and this one is supposed to be shared.' But Jinnie immediately put in, 'The missis has had her share; you can see by the bottle,' and she thumbed over her shoulder.

  He walked slowly to the delph rack and lifting the bottle up to the light, he commented, 'And a good share, I'd say.' Then looking towards the bed, he said, 'You've certainly wetted your whistle this time, Ma.'

  'And who has a better right, I ask you; it was never meant for her; Dilly Stevens isn't so free at handing things out.'

  'Well, she has been on this occasion, and for the time being I think you've had more than your share. I suppose Mrs Stevens meant it for Christmas?' He had turned towards Jinnie. 'Isn't that so?' and she muttered her answer, 'Yes, it was for Christmas.'

  'Well, we'll keep the rest for then, shall we, Ma?'

  He walked to the cupboard and after placing the bottle inside, he closed the door, then tapped on it twice, saying, 'See you on Christmas Eve.'

  No remark on this was forthcoming from Rose, and he went towards the fire and, bending, held out his hands to the flame that was escaping from beneath the bottom of the iron pan of stew bubbling in the heart of it. He glanced back at Jinnie, saying, 'Did you enjoy riding on the horse?'

  The question brought her hands to a standstill before she said softly, 'Yes; but I never asked.'

  'No, no; of course you wouldn't.' He straightened up suddenly and, now turning his back to the fire, asked,

  'Did she charge you for the Christmas cake?'

  'No. No, she charged me for nothing. She was most kind.'

  'Where's the cake?'

  She jerked her head backwards, ' On the top shelf of the cupboard.'

  He was about to mount the steps to the loft when his mother's voice called, 'Here! a minute.'

  His hands remained on the rung of the ladder for a moment before he turned and walked slowly to the bed.

  Rose Shaleman did not speak immediately, and as he looked at her he realised with some surprise that she was slightly tipsy: her eyelids were blinking rapidly and her mouth was opening and shutting, and her body seemed to be ... the only word he could think of was 'bristling', her shoulders hunched, her hands gripped into tight fists as she said, 'It is only parsnip wine.' And her head began to wag now, and she put a hand to her mouth and wiped the spittle from her lips before she went on,

  'I'm not as black as I'm painted.'

  The remark in itself was another surprise, and to this he answered, 'Nobody is, Ma; nobody ever is.'

  'Well, you're acting as if I am.'

  'Well' - he paused - 'that's your own fault, Ma; you haven't been very pleasant of late.'

  'I'm pleasant to them that's pleasant to me.'

  To this he had no answer, and she now began to pick at the quilt with her finger and thumb, a nervous movement, and her voice was low as she said, 'I've got something to tell you; but it's got to be when--' She motioned towards the table before adding in a mutter,

  'It's got to be when we're by ourselves. Will you stay in the morrow?'

  'Yes; for as long as you wish, Ma.'

  Her head nodding, she leant towards him, saying,

  'Just a little drop of that wine; it's eased the pain' she patted her chest - 'better than any pill, and it's been bad today.'

  She was indeed tipsy. He had the desire to laugh at the thought that she could be nicer when she was drunk than when she was sober.

  Of a sudden, there came into his mind the picture of a woman lifting her skirts up to her knees and dancing when there had been no-one in the house but he and Hal; and he could faintly recall Hal's yelling at the woman and she boxing his ears. How old would he have been then? Three? Four?

  He backed a step away from her, saying 'Ma, you'll have your share at Christmas; I think you've had enough for one day, don't you?'

  'What d'you mean, enough?' Her voice had changed, her body had stopped its jerking, she was stiff again. 'I had two drops in a mug.'

  'Well, by the look of the bottle the drops were big drops, Ma, so settle yourself.' And he turned quickly and made for the ladder, her voice following him, the words so muddled he couldn't make them out, other than that he knew they were abusive.

  Up in the loft he threw himself on his pallet and, bringing a forearm across his eyes, he let out a long slow breath. He was tired. He had lost two lambs today, and he was afraid it was a sign of footrot.

  If he cleared anything next year he'd put up some windbreaks, because even on the lower ground it was hellish for the lambs. Money. Why couldn't he bring himself to take up Richard's offer? But no; that would spoil things. He was so glad he was back; yet what was it he had experienced when he saw him leading Jinnie on his horse? As with many of his other emotions, he would not dissect this one, for he couldn't possibly think it touched on rage; never towards Richard. But the feeling had passed when Richard condescendingly sent her scudding away as he would any servant girl.

  Servant girl. It was odd, but he himself never looked upon her as a servant girl: rather, he saw her on an equal footing with himself, and as someone he imagined would be permanently in his life.

  12

  The moon was shining, lighting up half the room and just touching the wall to the side of Rose's head. It had moved a lot, she thought, since she had fallen asleep after that last pain. Her head was aching; her mouth was dry, and she needed a drink. It wasn't water she wanted, it was another drink of that wine. Before, it had eased the pain and she felt good after drinking it.

  Bruce had said she was tipsy. That was nonsense; you couldn't get tipsy on home-made wine. Well, not drunk-tipsy. She looked towards the window again. It was a nice night but frosty, and she was cold; cold inside, cold all over. She must have a drink; but he had put the bottle in the cupboard and she'd never manage to get to the cupboard. Yet, why not? She'd got as far as the table the other night, hadn't she?

  She threw back the bedclothes, then sat on the edge of the bed for some minutes before she began to pull herself upright. If she could get to the table and into the moonlight she would be all right.

  With an effort, she reached the table, and leaned on it, gasping for breath.

  Minutes passed before she was able to pull herself upright and edge round the side of the table until she was opposite the cupboard. And now she turned her back to the table and leant her bony buttocks against it, her breathing coming in gasps. She looked towards the ladder: she had better be careful or he would be down.
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br />   It would take four steps to reach the cupboard. After another effort, she reached it, then slumped against it; but now she had to step back to open it. More minutes passed, and then the contents of the cupboard were revealed by the moonlight, the bottle of wine gleaming before her. She had to stretch her arm right out to reach it and when she brought it down she clutched it to her and was about to turn away when her eyes alighted on the stottie cake.

  After grabbing it, she found she couldn't turn around without the assistance of one of her hands, and so she brought the cake to her chest and pushed it behind the bottle.

  After some minutes she reached the table again, and rested against it while looking towards the bed; and she knew she couldn't cover that distance again, but there within an arm's length the moon was touching the top of the old basket chair. This she made for, sliding down into it with hardly a sound, except for her heavy breathing.

  She lay, her head back, her mouth open, her arm all the while grasping the bottle and the cake to her.

  Presently she relaxed and allowed the cake to slip on to her lap as she slowly withdrew the cork from the bottle.

  She put the neck to her mouth and made two audible gulps at the wine, then sighed, tears streaming from her eyes and which she made no effort to wipe away.

  Why hadn't she thought of making wine out of parsnips?

  Likely because she knew she was no hand at anything like that; she wasn't another Dilly Stevens. She had always been a Miss Clever Clouts, had Dilly Stevens; and she had won prizes for her efforts at the fairs.

  She again lifted the bottle to her mouth and took two more gulps; but this time she didn't lie back: she placed the bottle on the floor, then began to eat the stottie cake.

  She was now lying relaxed in the chair, and feeling so well. There was a lot to be said for parsnip wine. She no longer had a pain or an ache anywhere. Strangely, she was feeling young again; young enough to dance. She felt sleepy. But she wasn't going to sleep, not so long as there was anything left in that bottle. In for a penny in for a pound. There'd be hell to pay tomorrow, of course.

  Well, just let them start. She had got one on them, hadn't she? Keep it for Christmas, he had said; and that other skit saying that it had been given to her to share around. Now that she was feeling better she'd get rid of her, if it was the last thing she did. The bottle was again to her mouth, but now it had to be tilted well up.

  She was about to take another gulp when she gasped and her left hand clutched at her chest. 'Oh! God. Oh!

  God. Not that again,' she groaned. She had been all right a minute ago. Fine, fine. 'Oh! God.'

  Slowly the bottle slid from her hand to the floor. She was used to these attacks: she had only to lie still and they would go, even without a pill. But this pain was different. She screwed up her face and brought her teeth tight into her lower lip. She'd have to call for help. She'd have to bring him down. What was happening to her?

  She put her fingers up to her mouth; then through her glazed vision she could see that her hand was covered with blood. Her lungs. It was years since she'd bled.

  It had been the heart that was out of sorts, just out of sorts. Oh . . . Oh! There was a yelling in her head, but it made no sound outside her lips, and although she tried to call out, the words were strangled in her throat.

  When she toppled forward it was a slow movement: her body just seemed to fold up; and then she was lying in a huddled heap on the clippie mat.

  When the little clock on the mantelpiece struck twice, she failed to hear it.

  Jinnie was so cold she put her head under the clothes and brought her knees up to her chin. She didn't want to get up, even though the cock had crowed some minutes ago.

  It had sounded far away: perhaps it hadn't crowed at all, for it didn't always crow at the same time. Sometimes it had her up half-an-hour before she need be. Oh, if only she could go on sleeping; she'd soon get warm, curled up like this.

  When the cock crowed again she slowly brought her head from under the clothes, yawned, shivered, then grabbed at her stockings that had been laid across the bottom of the pallet. One had fallen on to the floor and she had to rise from under the cover of the hap and her Sunday coat in order to retrieve it.

  Back in the bed, she pulled on her stockings and her elastic garters and her underclothing.

  She did not pull on her bodice and her skirt until, standing as upright as she could, she had shaken her petticoats into place. Finally, she wrapped the woollen shawl, a present from Miss Caplin, around her shoulders, crossing it over her breasts before tucking the ends into the top of her skirt.

  She had accomplished her dressing in complete darkness; but now she reached out towards a beam and, taking up a box of matches, she lit the candle that sat in a tin holder lying there.

  When she reached the bottom of the steps she shuddered.

  The place was like an ice-box. She hoped the fire hadn't gone out.

  She opened the door into the kitchen, turned towards the fire, but then she was unable to prevent the high scream escaping from her lips, for there, on the mat, lay the missis. She couldn't see her face, only an arm outstretched and clutching a piece of the stottie cake, both covered in blood. A second scream that finished on the yell, 'Mister Bruce!' brought Bruce's head peering through the hatch; and the sight he looked down on made him cry out, 'Oh God above!' Then he was reaching back for his trousers.

  Within seconds he was in the kitchen where, grabbing the back of the basket chair, he flung it aside.

  When he was kneeling beside the twisted form, there was no need for him to appeal with: 'Come on, Ma!

  Wake up,' as he knew straightaway that she was dead, and had been for some time.

  'Oh God! To go like that.' He looked up at Jinnie, and his voice strangely quiet, he said, 'Go and get Max; I'll need help to get her on to the bed.'

  Jinnie remained standing as if she hadn't heard him speak, one hand held tightly across her mouth to prevent herself from being sick; and it wasn't until Bruce said sharply, 'Did you hear what I said!' that she sprang away . . .

  She was unable to recall much that happened during the next hour, except that Max had helped Bruce to do what was necessary to lay out his mother; all she had to do was to keep them supplied with bowls of hot water, and then hand them clean sheets. Afterwards, Max came down the room and told her to make some porridge, which she thought was odd. But one thing was clear: the woman on the bed would no longer pelt her with orders, and her going would assuredly change her life. Yes . . . yes, it would.

  On his way to tell the doctor of his mother's death, which he realised would come as no surprise to the man, he called in at the Stevens's and told them the news. And Mrs Stevens, knowing it was policy to speak well of the dead, said, 'God rest her soul: she's had a long painful road to travel, and now she can lie easy.'

  Mr Stevens was more to the point: walking with Bruce to the cart, he said, 'Well, lad, you're on your own now, and not afore time. She was your mother, but you can't get over the fact that she's been a heavy sack on your back. Now you'll likely be able to get some order into the place and tidy it up a bit. It used to pay well at one time, that place. Oh yes, it did, in your grandfather's time.' Then, as if the thought had just struck him, he said, 'There's Hal. What if he turns up?

  How will you view that? Have you thought about it?'

  'Yes, Mr Stevens, I've thought about it and I know how I would view it;' but he did not go on to explain what he meant, leaving it to his tone to imply it ...

  The doctor happened to be at breakfast, and so Bruce was told to wait in the hall; and when the man emerged wiping his mouth on a large white napkin and asked abruptly, 'Well, what is it now at this time in the morning?' Bruce stared at him and in much the same tone as the doctor had used, he replied, 'I'm very sorry to disturb you at your meal, but unfortunately my mother has died.'

  'Oh! When was this?'

  'I don't know; I found her dead in bed.'

  'Well' - the napkin
was again rubbed across the mouth

  - 'you've been expecting it, haven't you? In fact, in the ordinary way, if she'd had to go about, she would have been dead years ago. She's had it easy, you know, compared with some women. I suppose that's entirely thanks to you. Yes' - he nodded - 'I would say, thanks only to you. Anyway, I'll be up as soon as I've finished eating. There's no hurry. Your next caller'll be the undertaker, I guess. Are you going to give her a big splash, like your father's?'

  Bruce's tone was grim as he answered, 'No, doctor, I'm not going to give her a big splash.'

  'Well . . . well' - the man was shaking his head now that's sensible: your father was sent off like one of his

  betters and he had never done a decent day's work in his life.'

  Bruce did not make the expected reply to this, but pulled on his cap, saying, 'Good-morning, doctor,' then walked out ...

  The undertaker said, 'You're not going to put her away like her husband?'

  'No; she is not going to be put away like her husband.

  I've just told you that. I want a plain wood coffin and an ordinary hearse.'

  'Pallbearers?'

  'No, thank you; my assistant and I and two friends' he was thinking of Mr Stevens and Roy - 'will do the

  necessary once we reach the cemetery.'

  The undertaker pursed his lips and ran his fingers round the high collar of his jacket as he stared at the young man. He was curious to know about his change in fortune, for he had certainly spent on his father's last journey, and so, in an offhand manner, he said, 'Well, we'll have to see when we can fit it in.'

  'I want it done on Tuesday.'

  ' On Tuesday? It's Christmas week and we're already...'

  'I want it done on Tuesday. If you can't manage that day, I can go to your opposite number who deals with the workhouse. I understand he puts them away as decent as possible. And what is more, I should like to know your charges now, to see if I can meet them; unless, that is, you'd like to be paid in kind with eggs, pork or lamb.'

  The outcome of that terse conversation was an agreement that the hearse would be at the house at one o'clock on Tuesday, the undertaker giving himself the last word as he saw his unwelcome client out, 'weather permitting.'