A Nurse's Duty (40 page)

Gran was buried in the little churchyard in the dale the following
week
. It was pneumonia which had complicated her illness, a particularly virulent type, and the end was swift and inevitable. But still Karen was devastated. With all her experience of nursing she should have been able to save her, she agonized. What had she done wrong?

‘Nothing,’ said Patrick. ‘You did all you could for her, Karen.’

The interment followed a moving service in the Chapel attended by few mourners, for the dale was stricken with the new plague and most people who were still well were attending to their own sick or dying. Karen stood with Patrick’s arm around her as Gran was lowered into the grave, and her shoulders shook with sobs. Keenly, she felt the absence of friends and neighbours. Even the Bainbridges were absent for Mrs Bainbridge was also down with the ’flu. But worst of all there was no one from Morton Main. None of the family could come to the funeral. The plague was taking its toll there also and Mam was one of its first victims. She was gravely ill.

Patrick and Karen went back to the farm afterwards. He put away the trap and turned Polly out into the pasture and Karen went into the kitchen to start the dinner. For the first time since she could remember there was no proper funeral tea, no one had come back with them to eat and reminisce about the departed. ‘Giving her a good send-off’, as Gran would have said.

‘There’s a telegram on the table,’ said Nick, looking at Karen with red-rimmed, anxious eyes and the nervous tic pulsing away in his face. Everything which affected her affected him also, she thought numbly, but there was no comfort left in her to give him.

When Patrick came in she was sitting holding the sheet of yellow paper in her hand, the telegram which told of the death of her mother from the same plague.

‘Nick, take Brian out a while, will you?’ he asked, and Nick picked up the baby without a word and went out into the yard.

Patrick took the paper from Karen’s hand and read the few stark words then he lifted her up in his arms and held her tight.

‘It was too much for her worn-out heart, I should think,’ said Karen, her voice expressionless. ‘Poor Mam, poor Mam. And Da … Patrick, what will Da do now?’

But he had no answer for her. All he could do was hold her and comfort her.

Karen and Patrick took Brian and travelled down for the day of her mother’s funeral, leaving Nick in charge of the farm. Karen was quiet and sad throughout the journey, full of wild regrets because she had not made time to take the baby to see Mam again before she died. Patrick too was quiet, his concern for her pain showing in his attentiveness to her.

Coming into the old village of Morton, he was struck by the difference between it and its newer neighbour of Morton Main. The last time he was here he had been too concerned with meeting Karen’s parents to notice so much. The stone cottages had been built for agricultural labourers long ago, he surmised, they were far from being palaces but each had a front garden bright with flowers in sharp contrast to the mean rows of the pit village. But even here the towering slag heap and winding house could be seen overshadowing everything. He wrinkled his nose at the strong smell coming from the coke works and evident even this far away. He glanced at Karen but she seemed unaware of it. She held the baby to her, a set look on her face, as she started to walk down the road to Morton Main.

‘I’ll take Brian,’ Patrick said gently, holding out his arms for the baby.

‘No, no. Men don’t carry babies here,’ Karen said, and smiled briefly at him before the closed expression returned to her face. ‘It’s all right, love, I can manage him fine.’

They walked in silence for a while until they turned into the
rows
. The windows of Chapel Row all had their curtains drawn as a mark of respect for the dead woman in their midst. An all-pervading dust permeated the air, but the windows and doorsteps were shining clean, obviously scrubbed that morning. The street was quiet, the children all at school and most of the men on shift at the pit, the rest in bed after night shift.

Kezia opened the door to them, nodding coolly to Patrick and kissing Karen briefly on the cheek.

‘She’s in here.’ Kezia nodded towards the coffin in the front room and led them over to it ceremoniously. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen,’ she went on, and slipped away.

Karen gazed down at her mother, tears welling in her eyes.

‘Come away now,’ said Patrick quietly. ‘Come away into the kitchen. A cup of tea is what you need just now.’

He led her away into the warm kitchen where Da was sitting in his hard chair by the fire. He seemed dazed, overwhelmed by his loss, Karen saw, and she kissed him and murmured softly, her own grief submerged in his.

After a moment or two she showed him the baby.

‘Here’s Brian, Da, look how he’s grown.’

But he was taking little notice of anything, he didn’t look at Brian.

Karen glanced at Kezia who was busy making sandwiches and tea, and Kezia caught her glance and gave her a direct stare in return.

‘Pity you didn’t bring the baby to see them more often before this happened,’ she said. Kezia was bitter, Karen realized.

‘Well, the weather. And Gran …’ she began lamely.

Kezia’s expression showed she thought the faltering words poor excuse but she simply tossed her head and held her tongue.

‘I’ll help you with that,’ said Karen. She gave the baby to Patrick and, picking up a knife, started to butter bread. The sisters
stood
side by side at the table working on the sandwiches and eventually Kezia spoke.

‘I’m sorry, Karen, real sorry. I know you had Gran an’ all. I felt terrible when we couldn’t get up to the funeral, but what with Mam and young Meg both having the ’flu, well …’

‘I know,’ said Karen. ‘How’s Meg now, then?’

‘Better, thank God,’ sighed Kezia, pausing and closing her eyes for a second. ‘She’s awful poor-looking, though.’

The door opened and both sisters paused and looked up, knives poised in the air.

‘Jemima!’

Everyone turned to look at the thin, middle-aged woman who stood in the doorway.

‘Yes, it’s me,’ she said. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t come to my own mother’s funeral?’

Jemima walked up to her father and kissed his cheek and he half-rose from his chair to greet her, his face crumpling.

‘Jemima, oh, Jemima,’ he breathed, and hugged her to him.

‘Are you on your own?’ asked Kezia, glancing through the middle door which led from the front room.

‘I am,’ said Jemima, offering no further explanation.

Karen and Kezia looked at each other, Kezia raising her eyebrows.

‘I sent her a telegram,’ she whispered to Karen, ‘but I didn’t even know if she was still at the same address. She’s not been back for years.’

But any questions they had for Jemima had to wait as neighbours and friends began to file into the little house to pay their respects to the family before the funeral and there was no chance of further private conversation.

Everyone but for the men on shift followed the coffin to the Chapel on the end of the row. Mr Richardson, a Supernumary Minister now, his hair sparse and white and his figure frail, led
them
into the Chapel intoning the words of the funeral service in a high, quavering voice: ‘Man born of woman has but a short time to live.’ The family filed in and took the front pew, Karen sitting between Patrick and Kezia.

‘We are here to celebrate the life and mourn the death of Rachel, a much loved member of our Society and a faithful handmaiden of the Lord,’ said Mr Richardson. Amen to that, thought Karen, oh yes.

They sang ‘Abide With Me’, the sound swelling in the packed Chapel, and ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd’, to the tune so loved by Durham miners,
Crimond
. The old Minister gave a glowing account of Mam’s life, her fortitude in the face of ill-health, her love for her God and her family. And Karen, looking across at Da, saw how he was comforted by the words, and made proud. And then the service was over and they were thanking the Minister by the door of the Chapel, and for the first time, Karen noticed that Robert was there, standing by his father, offering words of comfort to Da and Jemima and Kezia. And then he was holding his hand out for hers and taking it in his cool, firm grip.

‘I am so sorry, Karen,’ he said, his own eyes reflecting her pain. ‘I did my best for her, but you know the condition of her heart.’

Of course, thought Karen, Kezia had told her Robert was the panel doctor now, looking after the miners and their families. He was a good man, he could have had a high flying career as a surgeon. ‘Thank you, I’m sure you did,’ she answered, and then they were following the coffin to the churchyard in Morton village where Mam was to be buried, and afterwards they returned to the cottage for the obligatory funeral tea.

Patrick was very quiet and stayed near Karen, watchful. People cast curious glances at him, the stranger among them, but he was oblivious to them, his eyes only for her unhappiness. But it was her own folk Karen needed this day.

‘We can’t stay long, we must get back to the farm,’ she said to Kezia as they met in the little off-shoot pantry to fetch cakes and biscuits. Jemima, of course, took no part in serving the meal. She was sitting by Da and eating heartily.

‘No, of course not.’ Kezia was still a little formal with her as she bustled back out with laden plates. Karen watched her for a moment, troubled. She felt guilty herself because she had not made the time to visit her parents more. Kezia was right, she thought miserably. She should have found the time somehow.

‘We have to go, Da.’ Laying her hand on his shoulder, Karen kissed his cheek but he only nodded dumbly and looked back at Jemima. Karen was reminded of the parable of the prodigal son, or in this case, daughter. Sighing she looked at Patrick, unable to think of what to say, what comfort she could give.

‘Yes, yes, that’s it. The journey that is.’ Patrick came to her aid with quick concern, finding her coat and hat, helping her on with them.

‘You’re going already?’ said Jemima. ‘I thought we would have a talk.’

‘Sorry, I must. The animals, you know.’

Jemima sniffed and turned away. Karen gazed at her back. Jemima never changed, she thought. Kezia went with them to the door.

‘I’m sorry if I was sharp with you, our Karen,’ she said. ‘I know it wasn’t easy for you to get down. And look at Jemima, she hasn’t been here for years.’

‘I’ll be back a bit sooner than that,’ promised Karen, and hugged Kezia.

They did not linger, for indeed it was true that they couldn’t leave Nick for too long even though he was good with the stock despite his handicap. Sadly they walked up to the bus stop to await the bus to Old Morton village.

On the train back to Stanhope they were silent, each of them
lost
in thought. Karen gazed at the sleeping baby, symbol of the future. She looked out of the window at the fields which were bright with the green grass of early summer. This was the time for a fresh start, she told herself firmly. But her mind was full of scenes of her childhood and an aching regret for things she should have said to her mother, or perhaps have left unsaid.

Patrick held on to his own thoughts. He was remembering the rickets he had seen in the children of the mining village, the worn faces of the adults. He felt ill from the smell of the coke works and had been unable to eat anything at the funeral tea. His own childhood had been poor but at least the air had been fit to breathe. Thank God they were living on the moor, breathing clean, fresh air, no matter how hard the life, he thought. Seeing Karen among her family at such a time had made him look at her with new eyes, giving him renewed respect for her strength of purpose in getting away from the mining community, making her own way and yet still maintaining close bonds with her family. And he thought again of his own parents. He would write to them before it was too late, he had put it off long enough. And surely, after all this time, his mother would have forgiven him?

‘Here we are.’ Karen broke into his thoughts as the train drew into Stanhope. She was wrapping the shawl closely round Brian against the cold wind which was blowing down from the tops and sweeping through the valley.

He watched the curve of her cheek as she bent over the baby. Mother and child seemed vulnerable somehow tonight. He felt a surge of protectiveness sweep over him. Tenderly he helped her down from the train. They were both shivering in the strong wind.

‘Soon be home,’ he said, and realized the farm really did feel more like home to him after the pit village.

Chapter Twenty-Five

LIFE ON THE
farm without Gran seemed strange to Karen and the feeling lasted for month after month. She would come into the kitchen and look around for the familiar figure, and each time the feeling of loss which overcame her as she remembered was just as strong. They had applied to the Church Commissioners for the tenancy to pass to them and one morning, Patrick came into the kitchen with the letter in his hand.

‘We’ve got it then,’ he commented.

Karen looked around her in satisfaction. She had always loved this place but since she and Patrick had come to live here she loved it more. They could work for a better future now, she thought. He had found work in the kilns in May. It was hard labouring and poorly paid, but it was work. He helped fill the small wagons with coke and limestone which then ran on the railed wagon-way to the kiln where they were tipped. It took two full days to load it up to the top, another two days to burn through. Only then could the lime be shovelled out at the bottom.

Karen worried about him. She worried about him all the time, even now as he sat down to his breakfast before going to work. It was morning, he hadn’t even started yet, and he still looked tired.

He had come in white from the lime the night before and had, as usual, to sluice himself down in the scullery. His clothes were thick with the dust and Karen dashed them against the wall in the yard to get rid of it, just as she had dashed her father’s clothes when she had lived in Morton Main, to get rid of the coal dust. Oh, yes, she worried about him. She was aware that he found the work hard, not being raised to it. Even when the lime was washed
off
, he looked white and strained. He did not complain, though almost every night he fell asleep in his chair the moment he sat down.