Calico Road (26 page)

‘Jack?
Tell me!
’

‘I’m sorry, love, but Nelly died this afternoon. Mam sent our Joey to fetch me, but it was too late to do anything by the time I got home . . .’

Only then did he try to put his arms round her.

She shoved him roughly away. ‘Why didn’t she send for
me?
Why did she wait so long? She must have known Nelly was worsening.’

‘I don’t know. But I doubt you could have done anything even if you’d been there. You know how easily children can slip away and Nelly wasn’t strong.’

‘I’ll never forgive
her
for this.’ Meg turned away, staring blindly into the distance. Nelly gone. Her little daughter dead. She should have stayed home, spent those last hours with the child at least. She would never forgive herself for that.

Now she had nothing left.

And her mother hadn’t even sent for her! That added further to the pain – and made up Meg’s mind for her. As soon as she’d buried her child she’d leave Northby so that she never had to see her mother’s face again.

They started walking and Jack tried to offer her words of comfort but Meg didn’t listen to them because there was no comfort possible. She kept seeing Nelly as she’d left her that morning, first flushed then pale, barely aware of what was happening around her, but smiling faintly when Meg had kissed her.

When Jack stopped her, raised his hand and brushed at her cheek she realised she was crying, silently, hopelessly. His cheeks were moist too.

At home she stopped outside the door, closed her eyes for a moment to gather from somewhere deep inside her the courage to do this, then slowly walked inside. Nelly was lying on the settle covered by a piece of ragged cloth. Netta was sitting by the fire, stretching her hands out to its warmth, with a cup of tea beside her.

Meg couldn’t even bear to look at her mother, so uncovered the child’s face and kissed her, then picked up the wasted little body and carried her daughter into the front room, the place where the two of them had slept, the only place she had any privacy or peace.

Gently and carefully she undressed and bathed her daughter, preparing the thin body for burial, fetching water from the kitchen but not speaking to anyone.

When her mother came to the door and started to say something, Meg glared at her and said, ‘Get out!’ in a voice that cut the air like a knife. She didn’t need to look into the mirror to know that the vicious expression was back on her face.

She heard hammering in the back yard and a little later Jack brought in a coffin he’d made. The wood looked hard and full of splinters so she put her pink shawl in it and laid Nelly on its softness, wrapping the ends tenderly round the child.

‘I’ve arranged the funeral for tomorrow,’ her brother said. ‘I’ll take time off work to be with you, to carry the coffin to church.’

She nodded, but couldn’t speak or she’d have started screaming and never stopped.

Later Ginny came to tell her the evening meal was ready but Meg shook her head. ‘I don’t want anything.’

Her sister hesitated before saying, ‘I’m that sorry, our Meg. She were a lovely little kid, our Nelly, an’ I’ll miss her. So will our Joe. He’s crying now.’

Meg could only nod.

When everyone else had gone to bed Jack came to sit with her for a while, not saying anything, just being there. His presence was as near to comfort as anything could be. He made them some tea and she drank it thirstily, but she couldn’t eat, not a crumb.

Eventually he had to go upstairs and get some sleep.

Meg didn’t feel sleepy, didn’t want to lose a minute of her last hours with her daughter.

In the morning the children came to say goodbye to Nelly before they left the house, but when her mother would have followed them into the front room, Meg stopped her at the door. ‘Get away.’

‘But I’m her grandma.’

‘I remember you slapping her face last week. It makes me want to slap yours now. And I will if you don’t stay right away from her.’

Netta gaped at her for a moment then made an angry noise in her throat and went back into the kitchen.

‘I don’t want
her
coming to the funeral,’ Meg told Jack. ‘I’ll go for her if she comes near my Nelly again.’

‘All right, love. Whatever you want.’

In the end there was just Jack and her to bury her child. He carried the tiny coffin through the streets and Meg walked beside him, heedless of who saw her weeping.

Parson spoke the words of burial gently and she was grateful for that. Her Nelly had been a gentle soul. Meg didn’t believe what he said about the life hereafter, didn’t believe in anything any more, but she did want Nelly to have a proper funeral, so sat there motionless and let the words flow past her.

Afterwards she didn’t linger by the grave, not wanting to see them pile black earth on her darling child. She turned and walked away as fast as she could.

When Jack caught up with her she thanked him and persuaded him to go back to work. She didn’t tell him what she intended to do because she knew he’d try to stop her.

Her mother wasn’t at home, which made things easier. Meg pulled up the floorboard in the corner and took what she considered to be her share of the family’s savings. No more, no less. Then she made her clothes into a carrying bundle, Nelly’s too because she didn’t want to leave those for her mother to pawn.

She didn’t look back when she walked out of the house, striding swiftly up Weavers Lane towards the moors. She had done with Northby, was never coming back, not even to see Jack. Never, ever!

As she walked, the wind blew her along and clouds raced across the sky. The wildness of the weather suited her mood. At first she debated whether to kill herself. She could go back after dark and tie bricks to her body before throwing herself into the reservoir, as other desperate souls had done. Or else she could find a high point on the moors and leap off it.

But for the moment it all seemed too much trouble, so she just kept on walking through the rest of the day and far into the night.

When Sophia found she was expecting her second child, she was pleased. Secretly she was hoping for a girl this time but Jethro had been jubilant about the son she’d presented him with a year ago and said openly that he hoped this one would be another boy.

To her surprise, he was a good and caring father, going to the nursery every day to see his son and play with him, something she’d not expected of a man so guarded. But with Martin, Jethro’s mask of cool reserve vanished and he even laughed aloud as he played with his son.

Jethro looked at her across the bed as he was getting undressed. ‘I’m pleased about the baby.’

‘Good.’ She was exhausted, wanted only to sleep as she had done last time she was in this condition.

He blew out the candle with his usual care, lifted the covers at his side and joined her in bed. No separate beds for them, he’d said early on in their marriage, though she would have welcomed a little privacy sometimes. ‘You’re a good wife, Sophia.’

She was startled. He so rarely gave compliments that she treasured each one. ‘I’m glad you’re happy with our marriage.’

‘Aye, I am that. Pity your sister hasn’t presented Andrew with a child yet. He’s not best pleased.’

‘Did he tell you that?’ She was worried about Harriet, who had grown very quiet since her marriage and who refused point-blank to discuss what was wrong, as something surely was. ‘He didn’t need to. I can guess from what he says, how he looks at her. He’s deep down angry.’

‘From what I hear about making babies, the more he fusses about it and makes her anxious, the less likely it is that she’ll start one.’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘From Tettie.’

‘Oh.’

She smiled in the darkness. Jethro set a lot of store on Tettie and her knowledge of children and birthing. He’d searched everywhere for a good nurse and when he’d found Tettie, had brought her back in his carriage, treating her with every courtesy, so highly was she recommended. And indeed, Sophia too had soon grown to value their son’s nurse, who had helped her with the birthing and been of great comfort.

The woman was now devoted to little Martin, who was rosy with good health and laughed often, something Sophia believed to be important. She had been burdened even as a small child by her mother’s expectations and desire for her to mind her manners, never to run, shout or play loudly. She had vowed that her children would be happy and carefree when they were little – though of course they must learn to behave politely in company.

She hadn’t discussed her views with Jethro, who left what he referred to as ‘women’s matters’ in her hands as long as their daily life went smoothly, but she’d made her wishes plain to the servants and above all to Tettie, who shared her beliefs about happy children thriving more than others.

‘Are you tired tonight?’ Jethro asked just as she was about to drop off to sleep.

Sophia knew what that meant. ‘I am a little, but if you want me . . .’

‘I know you’re tired, but it’s been a few days since we’ve lain together. I’ll be quick.’ He took her rapidly, expertly, with the minimum of fuss, then sighed into sleep.

She lay awake for a while, grateful for his consideration in bed. She was always very careful to tend to his needs, even now, because she didn’t want him lying with other women. Tettie had told her about the diseases men could catch from loose women and pass on to their wives. Besides, Sophia liked the fact that Jethro was coming to depend on her in small ways, though she wasn’t sure he realised how much yet. Not for her the quarrels that had often erupted between their parents or the cold silences that they witnessed between her sister and Andrew.

She wanted a happy home – even if her husband still didn’t confide his thoughts and worries, or talk about his youth. What a reserved man he was! Would she ever penetrate the façade he presented to the world? She knew what he liked to eat and wear, how he preferred his home life arranged, what made him happy in bed. But she didn’t know what went on behind those dark eyes and the imperturbable expression he donned like a coat each time he left their bedroom.

Did she want to know more about him? Wasn’t it safer to continue living calmly like this? She sighed. It might be safer but she did want more from him, much more. She wanted him to love her, then she would dare let herself love him. Was that too much to ask?

Toby stood by the window of the front bedroom next to Phoebe’s and looked down the road that led eventually to Halifax. Narrow, twisting its way across the moors and down into the valleys, it was an important if minor route connecting Lancashire and Yorkshire, and it carried traffic most days. He’d hoped for better things for the inn because of its being on this road, but although business had improved, he still didn’t get much carriage trade unless travellers had a problem. You’d think even the gentry would want to eat and refresh themselves. Perhaps they’d found Hal Dixon so unwelcoming they’d decided never to stop there again.

Oh, he should be satisfied with what he had, he knew. It was more than he’d ever dreamed of previously. But he wasn’t. In fact, he felt downright restless today and was half inclined to go for a tramp across the moors. It was cold but not raining and . . . No, he couldn’t. They’d be delivering the new barrels of beer today and it was better if he was there to keep an eye on things. Not that Gib’s men were likely to be dishonest. He’d been dealing with Gib ever since he took over the inn and he trusted the man. But trust or not, you had to be seen to be in charge.

Besides, Phoebe wasn’t well and he wanted to keep her in the house place as much as possible near the warmth of the fire. If he went out today, she’d be down in the cellar supervising the placing of the new barrels. She hated to lie in bed, but that’s what she really should be doing. The severe head cold that had laid her low a week or two ago had settled on her chest and she hadn’t picked up again, still wheezed and coughed when she tried to talk.

It was time – more than time – to find a maid to help about the place, but he’d put it off, not wanting to disturb their peaceful life together. There was no one suitable in the tiny village, though Alice Bent came in regularly to help out. But Alice was courting and would soon marry, then what would they do?

Any permanent maid they hired from outside the district would need to live in but there were plenty of rooms.

He’d go into Halifax the very next week and visit the agency which found servants for people. Surely they’d be able to help him?

In Halifax Toby was walking along the street minding his own business when a woman, a lady by her clothing, stopped dead in front of him, her face turning white, her eyes revealing deep shock. He tried to move round her but she put out an arm to stop him.

‘Excuse me, sir, but you’re so like my husband – Jethro Greenhalgh – I can’t believe it. You could be brothers. Twins even. Are you related to him?’

She had a pretty face and kind eyes, wasn’t looking down her nose at him however finely she was dressed, so he stayed to answer her question.

‘I am distantly related, Mrs Greenhalgh, yes.’

‘Why have I never met you, then?’

‘Because I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, ma’am. The Greenhalghs don’t recognise me.’

‘What’s your name?’ Sophia didn’t know why she wanted to know but she did. And if he was a relative, it was foolish not to recognise him. It was one of her minor regrets that neither she nor Jethro had any close relatives and therefore Martin had no aunts, uncles or cousins.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t think your husband would approve of our meeting. Better we ignore one another in future.’

‘But—’

He shook his head, gave her a regretful smile and walked away. At the corner he stopped and turned round to watch her covertly from behind a cart. He saw another woman who resembled her come out of a shop, smiling and waving a small parcel, saw that Mrs Greenhalgh was still frowning and looking in his direction.