A Country Marriage (50 page)

In the silence that followed, part of him wanted to remain sitting there, alone in the dark and freezing cold – it feeling like just punishment – but another part of him wanted to rush after her and tell her to throw away the poison; that somehow they would sort it out. Getting to his feet, he let out a low growl. Why were there so many voices in his head, and why were they all telling him different things? In all honesty, he felt weak from listening to them and if, even for one moment, they would just be quiet, then maybe he would be able to think squarely. Slowly, he traced her steps to the door, the truth of the matter suddenly plain to him: he
had
to let her go through with it. And if her action was to do any good at all, then somehow he still had to prevent his behaviour from arousing Mary’s suspicions. Wearily, he brushed the straw from his clothes and slipped out of the barn; how on earth he was now going to face his wife, he had no idea.

*

‘George! I been so worried!’ Mary exclaimed as she leapt from the chair, her face pale and her eyes wild. He stared at her, shocked, her state of terror seemingly all his doing. ‘When you didn’t come home I thought there must have been an accident, but the longer it went on with no one coming to tell me, the less I knew
what
to think.’ With relief apparently beginning to replace the panic on her face, he was still trying to work out how to respond when she asked, ‘What’s happened? You look real bad. Did someone die?’

In the circumstances, her question wasn’t unreasonable, but at the mention of someone dying he thought his knees were going to buckle under him and he had to reach to steady himself on the back of the chair.

‘No, no one’s died,’ he answered slowly. ‘Bailey wanted to see me after work; to talk about summat – an’ he kept me waiting.’ His excuse sounded lame even to him.

‘But it was bad news?’ she asked with a renewed look of panic.

‘What?’

‘The bailey,’ she repeated. ‘He had bad news?’

‘No, no. Turns out it was summat o’ nothing.’ Trying to gather his senses after the shock of her greeting he added, ‘Forgive me. I didn’t think how my being late would worry you so.’

‘No, never mind that,’ she answered, her relief evident now in her voice. ‘’Tis stupid of me to imagine the worst but that’s how it is for a wife, I suppose. I’m just glad you’re all right. You go and get cleaned up then and I’ll set your supper,’ she said more calmly.

Grateful for a reason to be able to escape the warmth of the fire, he nodded.

‘Aye. All right.’

Under the pump, he splashed himself with the icy water and rubbed vigorously at his face. This had to be the worst he had ever felt in his entire life. Annie was about to get rid of a baby –
his
baby – and Mary was worried that he had been in an accident. How was life ever going to be normal again? What had he thrown away? He stood uncertainly for a moment, oblivious to the cold, and then forced himself to go back inside, sensing immediately that his wife wasn’t done eyeing him.

‘George, is everything all right? I ain’t never seen you like this.’

He watched, dazed, as she searched his face for a response.

‘I’m fine,’ he replied, but turned his head from her, knowing that his expression would give him away.

‘George, if summat’s wrong, I beg of you,
tell
me
.’

The pleading in her voice forced him to turn back.

‘Look, ’tis nothing. I got one or two things on my mind at the moment but nothin’ you need werret yourself about. I got a lot in my head and only I can sort it out.’ Knowing that his words lacked any note of conviction, he made himself hold her gaze a moment longer and was about to try and reassure her further, when from upstairs came the sound of Jacob starting to bawl.

‘Oh,’ she said, placing the ladle on the table. ‘He’s been that grizzly lately. I can only think that he’s sickening,’ and, with that, she went up the ladder. But after a few moments of listening to her trying to pacify their son, he saw her returning with him in her arms to say, ‘Maybe
you
could hold him for a bit; maybe he’ll stop for you because he surely don’t want to for me.’

Awkwardly, he took his writhing son from her, certain that she would notice his less-than-steady hands, but for a brief moment, startled to be looking up at someone other than his mother, Jacob stopped crying. Swaying him gently, he said nothing. He couldn’t; his voice felt to be locked deep in his throat, buried under layer upon layer of demented and disturbing thoughts. This was his son –
one
of his sons – breathing flesh and blood that had grown from his seed inside his wife, and had been born and nurtured through her love and patience. James and Luke were the same; different mother but nevertheless from his own body and cherished in an identical way. Deep inside, it felt as though something was starting to tear, very slowly and very painfully, but it was definitely being rent apart leaving the edges raw and frayed. Inside Annie, the new baby might be unborn but it was still his child, just like this one, just like the other two; and, terrified at the realisation of what he had coerced her into doing, he spun around and thrust Jacob towards his startled wife.

‘I got to go someways,’ he said while she was still reaching for the flailing infant.

‘
Where
?’ she wanted to know, struggling to keep hold of Jacob, whose shrieks were now ear-splitting.

‘I got to stop summat. Summat very wrong. Go to bed. I might be a long time,’ he said, raising his voice above Jacob’s screams and casting about for his boots.

‘But—’

‘
Please
Mary. Do as I say. For me. Just this once. ’Tis my fault and I’ve got to sort it out,’ and, with his boots hastily laced, he grabbed for his jacket and went through the door, slamming it behind him.

Running down the lane in the terrific cold, he could feel the icy darkness closing silently around him, squeezing the breath from his chest and forcing him to gulp great mouthfuls of freezing air. With his throat constricting hard, he wondered briefly whether this was how it felt to be drowning, to be fighting desperately for breath while everything around took on a grotesque and sinister form. Above the thudding of his heart, his only conscious thought was that he had to get to Annie before it was too late; and, oblivious to his boots splashing heavily in the black water of the ford as his feet completely missed the stepping stones, he stumbled along the soft and deeply rutted track, allowing nothing to slow his progress, running from memory, blinded as he was by his tears and the icy, night air.

‘Annie!’ Throwing open the door, he burst into the kitchen, looking wildly about.

Despite his sudden entrance, she looked up only slowly, her hands resting on the edge of the sink and tears tracking furiously down her cheeks.

‘You better not have come to tell me… you changed your mind.’

He looked about the room. Such had been his desperation to reach her that it hadn’t occurred to him until then that she might not be on her own. Still panting furiously, he gasped for air and looked towards the door to the hall, overwhelmed by a feeling of complete and utter helplessness. Too late – clearly, he was too late.

‘No… I…’

‘Well, then you’ll be pleased to know that it’s done,’ she said, and looked back into the sink, where the empty mug lay rinsed and upturned. ‘Can you believe that it tasted like mint?’ The laugh she gave sounded strange and unsettling. ‘I can feel it now, still tingling on my tongue.’

‘When?’ he asked shakily.

‘Not more than a minute afore you came burstin’ in.’

He swung away from her, cursing silently. Damn his indecisiveness.

‘An’ are you all right?’ he wanted to know, turning back.

‘I think ’tis a bit soon for me to be in my death throes, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘No, I don’t mean
that
,’ he said weakly. So what
did
he mean, he wondered? She had done it. He was too late. ‘I… maybe… I thought perhaps you shouldn’t be alone tonight,’ he said, fully aware that this wasn’t his head talking. ‘If you’re going to be took bad, you need someone with you,’ he stumbled on, feeling her looking at him blankly. ‘I can’t bear to think—’

‘You’ve come back to
look
after
me?’

‘I suppose so,’ he shrugged, slowly regaining his breath but quickly starting to regret this latest impulsiveness.

She turned to lean against the sink and stare at him, clearly dumbfounded.

‘How?’

‘I’ve not the faintest notion,’ he replied truthfully. ‘Not upstairs, that’s for sure. And you can’t be took bad up there, anyway. Someone will hear.’ Meeting her eyes, he could see that she thought him crazed. ‘Can you fetch some blankets without anyone seeing?’ At least this time she nodded. ‘Then get some; as many as you can carry. We’ll go up the hayloft.’ He whispered it urgently and grabbed for her arm.

‘But ’tis utterly freezing out there.’

‘It won’t be. Yes, get blankets,’ he urged her, ‘and anything else you can think of. I’ll get water and… whatever.’ He looked about the kitchen. Food? No, she said she would be sick. A drying cloth? Yes. Cloths, lots of cloths. He cast about for objects that might be of help. A pail. A candle – no – a lantern; it would be safer in the hay.

Still not having moved, she looked at him.

‘George, this is madness!’

‘Annie, do you want me here or not?’ Suddenly she didn’t look sure, but nevertheless nodded. ‘Then please do as I say,’ he urged. ‘I’ll go over there now afore someone sees me,’ and without waiting for her agreement, he went into the scullery and grabbed at some cloths hanging in their usual place and reached up to the shelf for a jug.

*

It was a long and bitterly cold night as they lay rolled in blankets, deep in the hay in the freezing loft, with George holding on to her as though he might at any minute lose her. For the first couple of hours she slept fitfully, but at least she was relatively calm, and once or twice he thought that maybe he had even caught a few minutes of sleep himself. Then she started to drift in and out of consciousness, moaning and tossing about, screaming at one point that the walls were pressing in on her, and later that the barn was on fire. Alternately, she sweated and shivered, raged and wept, but he didn’t for one moment let go of her, crying his own silent tears as great shadows of remorse fell over him. Once, briefly, he prayed that Mary had gone to sleep and not woken to find him missing, but with the prospect of explaining himself to her simply too huge to contemplate, he buried it for now beneath other more pressing concerns.

And then, not long before dawn, her delirium passed and she started to bleed, bringing home to him the finality of the situation. With the onset of excruciating pain, she became more lucid and urged him to go home before they were discovered, leaving him to watch helplessly as she doubled over clutching her abdomen.

‘Can you get back to bed?’ he whispered. She nodded. ‘All right, then. I’ll try an’ come down tonight, after work.’

By way of reply she mumbled something incoherent and, still reluctant to leave but knowing that he had to, he crept away and stole silently back into Keeper’s Cottage to collapse, mentally drained and physically exhausted, into his chair, where he would later have to claim that he had spent the entire night.

Chapter 21

Home Truths

‘What a sour face,’ George observed as he came through the door that evening after a day at work.

Standing at the fire, Mary blinked rapidly and felt her spirits sink; how long must it be since he had last come home from work to ask after Jacob or enquire about her day?

‘What?’

‘No matter. Where’s supper?’

She turned away from where he was pointedly eyeing the empty table. If he was already cross, then she didn’t like to think how he would be once she’d put his food in front of him. Still, since there could be no disguising it, she may as well be honest.

‘There ain’t much in the stew tonight since ’tis too wet to get on the vegetable patch and the mice have had most of what was in the clamp.’

‘So I’m supposed to live on gruel?’

Holding the ladle above the pot, she watched the way that he snatched out a stool from under the table.

‘I…’

What she wanted to say was that, if earlier in the autumn he had cleared the woodshed as he had promised, then their store of vegetables might have fared better; or that if, once the harvest was over, he had cut the drainage ditch as she had asked, then her vegetable plots might not now be the mire that they were. But as it was, the vermin had already eaten her store of carrots and potatoes, the cabbages were rotting in the waterlogged earth, and the turnips were barely bigger than her fist and not worth the effort of getting caked in the slimy, evil-smelling mud. But she knew better than to try to point out these facts – or worse still, level blame – with him in this sort of mood.

Above them, she heard Jacob starting to cry and felt her body sag, but ignoring his wailing, she finished ladling the stew into their bowls, thinking that he should be grateful there was a meal at all. After all, it was only thanks to his father that she had a sack of barley to supplement the otherwise meagre ingredients.

‘Can’t you stop him?’ he asked, nodding his head upwards and screwing up his eyes against Jacob’s screams.

‘No,’ she said, placing a bowl in front of him. ‘I can’t. He’s sick.’

‘Well for heaven’s sake take him to Martha, then.’

‘I have.’ Did he honestly think she hadn’t thought of that? ‘She says it’s the damp and that most of the infants have got it. She says to keep him well-wrapped and give him warmed milk.’ At least that was something they had plenty of – milk – as long as she went to the farmhouse every day to fetch it.

‘Is this all the bread there is?’ She glanced across to the crock; there was a small piece left, but if he ate it now there would be none for her or Jacob in the morning. Wearily, she put down her spoon and went to fetch it. ‘That’s
it
?’

She checked a sigh. She was getting the brunt of his anger over something. But what?

‘I didn’t have time to make none. It was so wet this morning that it took me forever to take the eggs to market and get back again and then get both of us dried out.’ While she was offering her explanation, her eyes were watching the way he was eating; in truth there was nothing wrong with the stew but, as though to make his point, he was swallowing each mouthful as though it tasted vile.

‘Then what else is there?’ he asked, his spoon landing with a clatter in his empty dish.

‘Have mine.’

She pushed her own bowl across the table to him, the curl of steam still spiralling upwards from it. She didn’t feel like eating now anyway; she felt more like crying.

What she
wanted
to do was go round to him and get him to look at her, actually look at her for once. She wanted to ask him what had happened to them. She knew that he didn’t love her and that she didn’t love
him
, but that hadn’t prevented them getting along well enough for the first year or so. But this last year, since the spring at any rate, something had changed and she wasn’t entirely certain that it was just his involvement with the
Radicals
, behind it, either. Regarding him carefully she watched as he dropped his spoon onto the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘See if you can’t make a better go of it tomorrow,’ he said as he got up from the table. And then, throwing his jacket across one shoulder, he opened the door and went out.

Left by herself, she stared at the debris of their meal, unable now to hold back the tears she had earlier managed to check. Feeling them track down her face, she watched as they fell into her lap to make perfect circles in the dust on her skirt. Then, from above, she heard Jacob starting to scream again, and overwhelmed by despair, she lowered her head onto her arms and wept.

*

The following morning, Mary looked out to see a watery sun breaking through an occasional parting in the dismal cloud, and mindful of George’s warning about his supper, she went outside and took off her boots. Then, knotting her skirt above her knees, she walked barefoot over the cold and slippery grass towards the vegetable patch. Perhaps some of the turnips would be bigger than those she’d dug the other day, or maybe there would be a few parsnips of decent size; it had to at least be worth a look. And so, carrying the heavy garden fork, she edged her way slowly along the row of yellowing foliage, feeling how, at each cautious step, her feet were being sucked beyond sight by the cold and oozing mud that clung to them like an icy hand.

With her teetering progress so painfully slow, she decided to pause halfway along the row, and driving the fork into the ground for support, stood surveying her plight. The simple fact of the matter was that she was stuck. So what, now, should she do for the best? It seemed easily as far to go back the way she had come as to go keep going to the end of the row. Not only that, but the waterlogged state of the earth made it unlikely that she would be able to dig anything out, anyway. With the bitterly cold wind flapping the cabbage leaves about her legs, she came down in favour of continuing onwards, but only because it avoided the need to try to turn around. But as she tried to free her left foot, she was forced to watch helplessly as first one side of her skirt and then the other fell from their knots onto the mud. Cursing, she bent low, and with her free hand, scooped up the fabric, somehow managing to maintain her balance. But the more she tried to move her leg, the more her weight pushed against the fork until, slowly and predictably, it collapsed sideways, taking her with it.

The sharp slap as she struck the ground left her momentarily disoriented; the shock of the cold against her body making her gasp. In that moment, the effort required to drag her body from the mire felt simply too much, and for a moment, she considered staying there, sprawled among the rotting cabbages. The iciness, though, was already unbearable, and tentatively putting out a hand, she levered herself up and crawled over to the grass.

Once away from the worst of the mud, she sat with her head resting on her knees, her nostrils filled with the stench from the rancid slime caking her skirt. Briefly, she lifted her head, and taking in the state of her clothing and the slippery mess all around, admitted defeat. How on earth was she going to make supper? And however she was going to get her clothes clean and dry with so little light left in the day? And that was without the fact that Jacob was still crying. Yes, she had to get up, even if only for her son’s sake. And so, manoeuvring herself onto her knees, and then with her feet slithering about under her as though she was on ice, she made her way up the slope to the pump. The water from it would be icy, that much was obvious, and the prospect of washing under it one that she simply couldn’t contemplate. So, with a long sigh, she reached inside the back door for the kettle, carried it back to the pump, and cranked enough water to fill it. Then, with quivering hands, she set it on the corral over the fire, her eyes falling on her skirt and seeing with dismay that it was covered with slime. Wearily, she lifted it around her thighs, and bent to place another log in the flames before going to sit on the doorstep, growing colder by the minute while she waited for the water to heat.

When, finally, she had cast her sludge-covered clothes into the yard and briskly washed herself clean, it dawned on her that she hadn’t another skirt to wear, her only other one having been torn beyond repair the week before. In her cold and dejected state it felt like the final blow, and despondently, she went up to the loft, took a nightgown from her clothes chest, pulled it over her head and wrapped a shawl over the top. Well, if nothing else, she thought, catching sight of her son’s face, he had finally cried himself to sleep.

‘Sorry, lovey,’ she whispered, aware that it wasn’t his fault that he was unwell or hers that she could do nothing for him, but, grateful at least for the respite from his cries, she went back down the ladder and slumped in front of the fire.

She still had the problem of George’s supper. What on earth was she going to do about it? She
could
ask her mother-in-law for some vegetables but no doubt word would then get back to George, making her appear even more inept. She stared into the flames, the feeling in her stomach one of utter wretchedness as she realised that one way or another, whatever she did next was bound to cause trouble.

‘Mary?’ Startled to hear someone calling her, she turned to see the door being eased open. ‘Mary, are you all right?’ Francis! Unable to prevent her face crumpling, she hung her head. ‘Tell me,’ she heard him saying as he arrived alongside her and she felt him taking hold of her hands, ‘whatever’s wrong?’

‘I—’

‘No matter. Stand up.’ And when she did as he instructed, he sat in her place and pulled her back down onto his lap. Through her nightgown his clothes felt icy-cold, but already his presence alone seemed to be softening her limbs. ‘Mary, you’re shrammed. How on earth have you got so cold?’ She sank against him and tried to explain about the garden, her words petering out as she saw him shaking his head. ‘The man’s an utter fool! I could gladly—’

‘How are you here?’ she wanted to know, still astonished by his arrival.

‘Well, sometimes I nap a while in the barn after dinner, but today I realised how I could be coming up to see you instead.’

She sat more upright better to look at him.

‘But won’t you be missed?’

‘I doubt it. I was sent down to Alder Field to free-up the ditches, so for a good while no one will know whether I’m there or not.’ When she felt him pulling back a strand of her damp hair, she smiled. ‘You starting to feel warmer now?’ Still smiling, she nodded. ‘Right, well, while I don’t mean to abandon you, I’m minded to go and get you some things.’

‘What sort of things?’ Eased from his lap, she stood up.

‘Things you need,’ he said, looking about the room. ‘Where’s your basket?’

‘In the woodshed…’

‘And your milk jug?’ She nodded to the hooks on the wall. ‘Bide inside, then and keep warm. I won’t be long.’

‘But…’

Watching through the window, she saw him cross the yard, scoop up her mud-covered clothes from the cobbles and take them with him. Where on earth was he going? And whatever was he going to do with her muddy garments?

But in what seemed little more than half an hour, he was back; his arms laden.

‘Now,’ he announced, setting her basket on the table as she stirred from the chair, ‘here’s some milk.’ With her eyes wide, she watched him place the half-full jug beside the basket, hearing him add, ‘And here’s a skirt.’

‘Wherever did you get it?’

‘That don’t matter. I ain’t no idea about the size of it, so if it’s too big, well, then you’ll have to find a way to pin it or tie it or something.’

She fingered the rough woollen skirt and let it hang in front of her. It was certainly newer and in better condition than the one he had taken away and, unable to help it, she giggled.

‘Whatever did you do with mine?’

‘Gave it to someone to wash.’ She shook her head: would he have her believe that arranging for the laundering of a woman’s clothes was so humdrum? Clearly there was still much she didn’t know about him. ‘And these should tide you over until we can get on your vegetable patch.’

When he tilted the basket towards her, she peered in to see a handful of parsnips, two heavy turnips, half a dozen carrots, a couple of glossy onions, two rosy apples, a crisp cabbage and a handful of rather woody-looking parsley.

‘But—’

‘Listen. Make the roots last. On the way back I took a look at your vegetable patch and it’s in a real state, so it could be a long time afore you can get on it to dig anything out. And the apples are for you. Don’t let George have them, they’re for you an’ Jacob.’

‘You didn’t
steal
this, did you?’

‘No, I didn’t steal it.’

‘So where did it come from then?’

‘Someways it won’t be missed.’

From what she could see, it had to be from the kitchen garden at the farm but as for the skirt…

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Well, I only want to hear one thing from you,’ he said, stepping towards her and taking her hands.

‘What’s that?’

‘That you won’t go trying to dig that garden again while it’s such a quag. Even
I
wouldn’t do that. And if you run out of food, well, come and find me. Let George think this is the last there is, though and make him see that he needs to get some ditches dug or you’ll all go hungry.’