Born to Trouble (38 page)

He scrubbed at his face, his eyes bleary ‘We’re going to have to think about opening up downstairs now Nessie’s out of danger.’

‘Maybe, but not today. Today you’re going to sleep and I’m going to be in charge for once. I’d forgotten what a bossy individual you are, Seth Croft, till this little lot.’

‘Pot calling the kettle black.’

Pearl smiled. ‘Go on.’ She gave him a little push. ‘Go and sleep for as long as you can. I’ll see to her.’

She followed him out of the room and stood with him when he stopped and looked in at Nessie through the open bedroom door. Nessie’s eyes had been shut but she opened them and smiled. ‘Give it a day or two,’ she whispered, ‘and I’ll be back downstairs.’

‘Not if I have anything to do with it.’ Seth surveyed her pallid face. She had been on the plump side a week ago, now she seemed all skin and bones. ‘You’ll do as the doctor said and take it easy for the next few weeks. We’ll manage just fine in the shop. You’re not indispensable, you know.’

Nessie’s smile disappeared. ‘I know that,’ she said quietly.

Pearl pushed Seth again. ‘Go and lie down.’ Looking at Nessie, she said, ‘I’ve told him to rest, he’s done in.’

Nessie nodded but said nothing. When Seth had shut the door to his room, Pearl smiled at her friend. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

Once Nessie had drunk her tea she lay dozing, and Pearl caught up on a few chores she’d been putting off for days. The October day was cold but sunny, and Pearl opened all the windows in the flat apart from those in the rooms where Nessie and Seth were sleeping. It was wonderful to let the fresh north-east air blow through for an hour or so; she felt as though it had taken the last of the sickness with it. At least, she hoped it had. She’d been watching Seth like a hawk all week, but to date God had answered her prayers and neither she nor her brother showed any signs of falling ill.

It took a while for the flat to warm up again when she closed the windows, but after making herself a warm drink she sat down in the sitting room to darn some of Seth’s socks. She must have fallen asleep immediately, because when she came to she was still holding the first sock and the room was lit only by the glow from the fire, it being dark outside.

Jumping up, she went quickly into Nessie’s room, worried that her friend might need something. Nessie was wide awake, staring at the door as Pearl lit the gas mantle. ‘Is Seth all right?’

‘Seth? I think so. He’s still asleep. Hang on a sec, I’ll check on him.’ Opening Seth’s door, Pearl saw he was lying facing the wall, his regular, steady breathing telling her he was still out for the count. She reported back to Nellie, made her friend a fresh hot drink and plumped up her pillows, then went into the kitchen to see about dinner.

It was another hour before she popped her head round the door to Nessie’s room. ‘All right?’ she asked brightly, then, ‘What’s the matter? Are you feeling ill again?’

‘Seth’s sleeping a long time. You – you don’t think he’s going down with the flu, do you?’

‘He’s just tired, Nessie. We all are.’

Nessie nodded, then stared at Pearl. Stifling a sigh, Pearl said, ‘You want me to check on him again?’

‘Oh, please, Pearl. I’ve got a feeling on me . . .’

A few moments later, Pearl was back, saying, ‘He’s sleeping, Nessie, that’s all. Look, read one of those magazines by your bed and don’t worry. Dinner will be ready soon and his stomach will wake him. You know Seth and food.’

Pearl had cooked stuffed cod for dinner. Nessie had no appetite at all but the dish was light and tasty and she thought it might tempt her. When it was ready, Seth was still deeply asleep and she was loath to wake him. He hadn’t slept properly in days and was completely exhausted; she’d keep his food hot and he could eat when he awoke. She took Nessie’s meal into her on a tray and the first thing Nessie said was, ‘Is Seth up yet?’

‘No, but I’ll keep his food hot.’

‘He’s ill, isn’t he? You’re not saying, so as not to worry me. He should never have looked after me, it’s all my fault.’

Reminding herself that the doctor had said depression was a factor in recovery, Pearl said patiently, ‘Look, lass, he’s exhausted, which is only to be expected. And if he did go down with anything, it wouldn’t be your fault anyway.’

It was the wrong thing to say. Nessie’s chin wobbled and the next moment she’d burst into tears. Putting the tray on her own bed, Pearl knelt down by Nessie and patted her hand. ‘You’re just feeling low and no wonder, you’ve been so ill.’

‘P-promise me he’s all right.’

‘Seth? I promise.’

‘I – I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to him because of me. He’s come through so much and he’s so brave and good . . .’

A light had clicked on in Pearl’s mind. Still patting Nessie’s hand, her voice soft, she murmured, ‘You like him, don’t you?’ Why hadn’t she seen it before? Thinking back, a hundred little things should have alerted her. Oh, what a muddle.

Nessie retrieved her hand and wiped her eyes. Her face burning, she whispered, ‘Promise me you won’t ever tell him, Pearl. He’d be so embarrassed. Here’s me old enough to be his mother—’

‘Hardly,’ Pearl interrupted.

‘Well, nearly. There was a bairn in the shop a few weeks ago who asked Seth if I was his mam.’

‘I don’t know why,’ Pearl said stoutly. ‘You look younger than your age and Seth looks older than his.’

Nessie smiled shakily. ‘You don’t lie very well, lass. I look what I am, a middle-aged woman with not much to commend her. Seth – Seth’s in his prime. He’ll want to marry one day, have a family, bairns.’

It was on the tip of Pearl’s tongue to tell her, but then she bit back the words. She had promised Seth, but she hadn’t promised Nessie and she didn’t intend to. Her voice brisk, she said, ‘No more crying, that won’t help you get better.’ Standing up, she placed the tray on Nessie’s lap. ‘You get on the other side of that and I’ll be back in a minute when I’ve ate mine, all right? And don’t worry about Seth. He’s as tough as old boots, all us Crofts are.’ She nipped out of the room before Nessie could say anything more, shutting the door behind her.

Seth was just beginning to stir. As she reached his side he opened his eyes. ‘What time is it? It’s dark outside – how long have I been asleep? You should have woken me.’

Ignoring all that, Pearl said urgently, ‘Nessie’s been crying.’

Seth shot up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘You.’

‘Me?’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘What are you on about?’

‘She’d got it into her head you were going down with the flu.’

Seth stated the obvious. ‘I’m not.’

‘I know that, but she thought you were and she got terribly upset.’

‘But you told her I was all right?’ Seth said as though that settled the matter.

Wondering why men in general and her brother in particular were so thick, Pearl said tersely, ‘She was crying over you, Seth.’

‘I know, you said.’

‘She said she couldn’t live with herself if anything happened to you.’

‘Nothing is going to happen to—’ Seth stopped abruptly.

‘She thinks you’re brave and good and you’ve come through so much, but she’s older and one day you’ll want to marry and have bairns with someone. She thinks you’d be embarrassed to know how she feels.’

Seth stared at her, the look on his face making Pearl relax and take a breath. She’d done her bit, now it was up to him.

She wasn’t privy to what went on between them once Seth had closed Nessie’s bedroom door behind him, but some time later when Seth called her, his face was beaming. She came into the room to see Seth sitting holding Nessie’s hand and in that moment Pearl really did think Nessie looked like a young lass. ‘We’re going to be married as soon as Nessie’s well.’ Even Seth’s voice was different, lighter.

Pearl squealed and then the three of them hugged each other, Nessie keeping her arms round Pearl for a long time. ‘Bless you,’ she whispered. ‘Bless you, lass.’

November 1918

‘It’s over. Germany signed the Armistice days ago, and they’ve taken down the blackout curtains and unmasked the streetlights. Everyone went mad in the town, with dancing and fireworks and street parties for the bairns.’

Christopher stared at Ray Fletcher. He had known the end was near, of course. Even somewhere as remote as Hill Farm had the odd tinker or two pass by, and the last time he’d gone to the cattle market, the townfolk had been talking about the Germans being pushed back to the old Hindenburg Line. He took the newspaper Ray had bought for him when Ray and his wife had visited their eldest girl in Sunderland, who had just presented them with their first grandchild.

Reading swiftly, he scanned the front page, passing over the reports of the jubilation in the capital which had marked the end of the war. The terms of surrender were hard: Germany had to hand over 5,000 heavy guns, 30,000 machine guns, 2,000 war planes and all her U-boats; the surface fleet would be interned in British waters, with only caretaker crews. Thousands of locomotives, wagons and lorries were to be delivered to the victors, and Allied troops would occupy the Rhineland, their upkeep to be paid for by Germany. Finally, the Allied blockade of Germany was to remain in force.

Christopher read on. Apparently the Kaiser had fled Germany and revolt had swept the country. Socialist demonstrators were filling the streets, sailors had mutinied and army troops had seized their command posts. If it wasn’t all-out revolution, it wasn’t far off. And not before time. Because of this madman, ten million men and boys worldwide had died, Nathaniel among them. The newspapers were already calling them ‘a lost generation’.

Stuffing the newspaper into his jacket pocket to read later, he pulled his muffler further up his face. It had been trying to snow all day and the wind was enough to cut you in two; all he wanted was to get indoors in front of the fire and toast his toes with a glass of whisky in his hand, but he still had one or two things to do outside first. He smiled at Ray. ‘What’s the baby like?’

‘Best ask the wife. Far as I can see, he’s got two arms and two legs same as any bairn, but according to her there’s never been a bab to match him.’

‘Proud grandma.’

‘Oh aye, she’s that all right.’

As the two men parted, the first fat snowflakes began to fall out of a laden sky. Christopher knew the signs. They were in for a packet. Last winter had been a bad one; the wind had been like a carving-knife, cutting hands and cheeks until they bled, and the cold had frozen his gloves like boards day after day. The oldtimers were saying this winter wouldn’t be any different. Before he had come to live here he had never regarded the weather as friend or foe, but he did now. Wall-mending, milking, cattle-feeding and watering still had to go on whatever the conditions. The cowhouses and stables had to be cleaned and the hens, calves, pigs and sheep had to be fed. A good winter made all the difference, if such a thing existed in this part of the country. He understood now why the weather was the favourite topic of conversation with countrymen: it was the foundation on which all their livelihoods was based.

During the winter months all the cattle were kept indoors at night and food was fed to them in their cribs in the form of pulped turnip, hay or crushed corn. Christopher found he felt an abiding satisfaction when he surveyed the animals settled down for the night. It made for more work in the winter, and before bedtime a visit had to be paid to all the animals in their various buildings to ensure they were safe and in no danger from their tethers, but nevertheless this gathering-in touched something fundamental deep inside.

It was quiet in the cattle-shed apart from the chinking of tie-chains, and puffs and snorts. Outside, the wind was howling and the storm was gathering force; inside, was lamp-lit serenity. Christopher experienced a shaft of pure joy that came from knowing that at this precise moment there was no place he would rather be on God’s good earth. He grinned at the fanciful thought. The men and women who worked for him were not given to such whimsical notions, or if they were, they didn’t admit to it. He was an oddity, caught between two worlds, and there had only ever been one person who had allowed him to be himself and loved him for it.

If she had lived, Pearl would be a mature woman of twenty-eight or so now. They would likely have had children. A son maybe, and two daughters. He would have liked daughters, little miniatures of Pearl, and his son would have been tall and gentle. Charles Armstrong. That had a ring to it.

He gazed over the cattle, their warm breath like steam as they contentedly chomped.

Pearl would have been a good mother and he would have been a good father; they both, in different ways, had had bitter childhoods. They would have made sure Charles and his sisters knew they were loved and cherished.

The shed door opening brought him swinging round to see George stomping in, his cap and shoulders covered in a mantle of white. ‘Comin’ down thick and fast now, Mr Armstrong. We’ll be diggin’ ourselves out in the mornin’, you mark my words.’

George always looked on the bright side.

‘Well, it won’t be the first time, George, and I don’t suppose it will be the last.’

‘Aye, you’re right there.’ George picked up a bale of hay. ‘I’ll be after seein’ to Bess and Gracie,’ he said, naming the two shire horses, ‘and I can manage the rest the night. Why don’t you get yerself in front of the fire, Mr Armstrong? You’ve been hard at it the last couple of days, with no let up.’

‘There was extra to do with Ray not around.’

‘Aye, well he’s back now an’ he’s seein’ to the cattle in the other shed.’

Christopher nodded. He liked George and he knew George liked him. George was getting on a bit, and the old Northerner treated him much as Wilbert had done, giving him the respect due to his position but with a fatherly edge to his manner. He had struggled in the early days, but George and Ray hadn’t condemned him for his lack of experience, rather attempted to ease his way as much as they could – and he was grateful to them for it.