Whisper on the Wind (71 page)

Paul’s child, gone. Paul’s precious son had slipped away from her in a haze of pain and protest.

‘Ssssh, Roz. You don’t have to talk about it; not if you don’t want to.’

‘No. I
don’t
want to. But he was such a little thing. It
was
a boy; Dr Stewart told me.’

Her face was a mask of grief and she turned her head from side to side on the pillow, her hair bright against the whiteness. ‘What did I do that was so wicked?’

He was at her side in an instant, gathering her to him, holding her, rocking her. He felt her body begin to tremble, then the cry came: a harsh, animal cry of pain and anguish. It echoed round the bare little room, the most heart-tearing sound he had ever heard.

‘Ssssh, now. It’ll be all right; it will. Just cry, sweetheart. Cry for Paul and for the baby. Don’t hold back.’

The tears came in deep, jerking sobs as she cried out for her dead lover and her stillborn child. In Jonty’s arms she wept away the bitterness of pain and grief while he hushed her and stroked her hair, holding her tightly, until it was over.

‘I haven’t got a handkerchief.’ She looked up at him through swollen eyelids.

‘Here.’ He gave her his own and she dried her eyes then blew her nose noisily.

‘Can I have a drink, please?’

‘Sure, love.’ He poured water from the jug at her bedside, holding the glass to her lips. ‘That better?’

‘Yes, thanks. Sorry about all the noise …’ She closed her eyes and lay back against the pillows, exhausted. ‘And thanks for being there. I wanted to cry. I waited till you came …’

‘Any time at all.’ Why did he love her so? And why would he love her, God help him, to the end of his days? ‘Want to talk to Kath, now?’

She nodded, and taking his hand in hers, she laid it to her cheek.

‘You’re an old love, Jonty Ramsden. Come again to see me, if you aren’t too busy?’

‘I’ll come.’ He smoothed back the hair that lay across her face with gentle fingers. ‘Soon as I can.’

‘They’ve gone,’ Roz whispered as Kath bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Paul and the baby – I’ve lost them both. And he was such a little scrap. I asked Dr Stewart about it and he told me. A boy, he said. So tiny he could have lain on the palm of my hand. But perfect. Nobody’s fault, he said. Just bad luck. Oh, Kath, that poor little thing …’

‘Hush, love. The baby’s all right. He’ll be with Paul, now. Paul will take care of him.’

‘Yes.’ She smiled fleetingly. ‘Of course he will. And d’you know what else the doctor said? I’d be all right, next time. Next time – imagine? He doesn’t know there can’t be a next time.’

‘Sister said you can maybe come home in a couple of days – if you behave yourself and do as you’re told.’ Kath reached for her hand and held it tightly, tears trembling on her voice. ‘I told them I was like your sister, you see, that we live together and there’d be plenty of people to look after you.’

‘Well, you
are
my sister, Kath. And I do so want to come home. I – I finally had a good weep. All over Jonty’s clean shirt …’

‘I can tell. Your eyes are all puffy and your nose is red. Weep some more, if you want to. It’s what you’ve been needing.’ Kath sniffed inelegantly. ‘I’ve brought you some roses – the pink ones you like, from the ruins. Sister’s having them put in water for you. And Roz – I miss you something awful.’

‘I miss you, too. And Ridings and, oh, everybody.’

‘That’s my girl.’ Kath smiled weepily. ‘Polly’s coming to see you tonight – early, so she can get the last train back. Is there anything she can bring for you; anything you want?’

‘Nothing, thanks.’ Only Paul, and Paul’s child and to be able to turn back time to a June evening. Paul kissing her goodnight; Paul saying
Fifty years from now, I’ll still love you.
‘Nothing at all, Kath. I’m fine. Just fine.’

‘That’s
awful
!’ Red-faced, Grace Ramsden laid aside the letter.

‘From the Ministry?’ Kath asked.

‘It is. And the milk ration to be cut again! How, will you tell me, is a body to make out on half a pint of milk a day?’

‘Do they have a choice? Grin and bear it, I suppose.’ People usually did. They had to. To grumble would be considered unpatriotic, so they made do with what they could get.

‘Well, I don’t see the need for cutting down on milk. We’re producing enough for the whole of Alderby and plenty left over for the dairy at Helpsley, so just you see to it that folk in the village don’t go without.’ Grace stuck out her chin defiantly. ’There’s some of the old ones have seen two wars and now they’re being told to make do on half a pint of milk, and rations cut to the bone!’

‘Don’t worry,’ Kath soothed. ‘They won’t go short. There won’t be a Ministry of Food snooper checking every bottle we sell, so think about something nice, instead – like Roz coming home tomorrow. I’ve missed her, you know.’

‘We’ve all missed her, but it’s because of her not chewing her food properly. There was a body in Helpsley had trouble with his appendix, and all because he didn’t chew his food enough. You tell her, Kath.’

‘I’ll tell her. And you tell
me
how we’re to make her put her feet up?’ Kath hurriedly changed tack. ‘No work for another week the doctor said.’

‘Shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll manage all right. There’s a week or two, yet, before we start lifting the potatoes and the beet. It’s sad that Mrs Fairchild isn’t here to see her first crops gathered. And Marco that helped plough all those acres of hers – sad about him, too. I miss him, Kath. I suppose he’ll be working for some other fanner now – more’s the pity. I wonder where they all went?’

‘I wonder,’ Kath echoed, turning her face to hide the sudden flush on her cheeks. ‘I’ve finished in the dairy – shall I see to the eggs?’

‘If you would, lass. If there are any cracked ones bring them in, will you, and I’ll make Roz a baked custard tomorrow.’

‘She’ll like that. She’s coming in the ambulance, but Polly will be there, so she’ll be all right.’

‘Aye. Polly’ll see to it that she does as she’s told. And let’s hope the dratted thing doesn’t flare up again. What with losing her gran and her young man, then getting rushed into hospital – let’s hope that’s the last of her troubles behind her. Unlucky, she’s been – but running true to form, I suppose, for a Fairchild.’

Unlucky. Kath was still thinking about it that evening after work was over; thinking, too, that Grace didn’t know the half of it. Not about the baby nor about Mrs Fairchild’s diaries. Everything Roz had, now, was gone, and it was useless to reason that what had happened was for the best; that Roz need never look at her child and regret what she had passed on. Roz had wanted that baby and she, Kath, had wanted it too. Life could be so uncaring and unfair that she wanted to beat the wall with her fists, to weep as Roz had wept, for a little dead child.

The knocking, the hard, urgent knocking on the back door drove all thoughts from her mind and her eyes slid to the window.

On the doorstep was a black-haired, brown-skinned gypsy woman and a small, thin child.

‘Damn!’ This she did not want. A begging gypsy she could do without!

The knocking came again; harder, more insistent. There was nothing for it but to tell them to go.

‘Yes?’ Kath didn’t like the gypsies. Mrs Fairchild hadn’t liked them either; had never allowed them on Ridings land, Roz once told her. ‘No thank you,’ she said, looking at the pegs in the woman’s hand.

‘It’s lucky to buy from a gypsy, lady.’ The woman stopped, dramatically sweeping the back of the house with her eyes. ‘And this house needs luck.’

‘Please go. I haven’t any money to give you.’ Kath gazed into the blazing black eyes. ‘This isn’t my house. I know nothing about luck.’

‘Then I’ll read your palm.’

‘No! No, thank you.’ Defensively she stuck her hands in the pockets of her breeches. ‘And I haven’t any money. I really haven’t.’

‘I believe you, lady. You have a truthful face, and a sad one.’ The child at her side began to cry, but she ignored it. ‘I can tell you good things. There are children for this house; a lot of children.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about!’ A lot of children? How could she say such a cruel thing? There would be no children at Ridings. Roz would never marry; not now. ‘Just go away, will you? And why is the little one crying? Is she hungry?’

‘Show me the young thing that isn’t, lady?’

‘Just a minute. Stay there.’ The child
was
hungry. And it wasn’t the old woman’s child, either. A granddaughter, probably, dragged along for a day’s begging.

Quickly Kath cut a thick slice of bread, spreading it with margarine and jam.

‘Here you are.’ She smiled as the child bit into it, eating hungrily, noisily, mouth open.

‘You like children, lady? It’s a crying shame you’ll have none of your own.’

‘But you said – this house – a lot of children …’

‘None of them for you.’ She shook her head. ‘But you’ll know great love and much happiness, though none of it brought about by children.’

The woman looked down, then looked up at the sky, clucking. It had begun to rain, drops falling on the doorstep big as halfpennies. Sighing she took off her shawl and draped it around the shoulders of the child.

‘You’ll get wet,’ Kath scolded. ‘Haven’t you a coat with you?’

‘No, lady. Never did have one.’

‘Here, then – take this.’ Hanging on the peg beside the door was Hester Fairchild’s gardening coat. ‘Put it on. It’ll keep you dry.’ She dipped into her pocket, taking out all the money she had. ’This is all I’ve got – buy something for the little girl, but go, will you?’

The gypsy took the money, arranging it on her left hand with a dirty forefinger.

‘There’s luck between us, mistress. In threes. That’s good.’

‘Luck?’ Three shillings, three pennies, three halfpennies. Three and fourpence-ha’penny was lucky?

‘Three threes. Luck comes in threes. For three-times lucky I’ll help take the curse from off this house. Shall I do that, lady? Shall a gypsy take away the bad luck?’

‘Curse? What nonsense! Why do you say that?’ And why was she saying it was nonsense? The house
was
cursed. Hester had known it, all along.

‘Why? Because a gypsy can tell. I can smell luck; I can smell ill-luck. Good luck is sweet. Bad luck turns your stomach like a rotten stink. There’s been ill-luck over this house for as long as I can remember.’

‘And you can take it away?’ Kath gasped. ‘How much money do you want?’

‘I’ve money enough. You gave me all you had and that is riches. And you gave food to the bairn and a coat for my back. I want nothing more.’

‘But how? Can you do it now?’

‘Nay, not I. Not alone. But we come to these parts on Luke’s day and stay until Jude’s day. Jude can do all things. Some pray to him for miracles, but gypsies make their own miracles, their own luck. Will we be welcome when we come, to camp here and graze our horses at the sides of your lane?’

‘You’ll be welcome,’ Kath whispered.

‘Then there’ll be one of us – the old one – who can do what you ask. She’ll take your curse and leave this house blessed.’

The rain stopped as suddenly as it started and the gypsy took the coat from her shoulders and offered it back.

‘Keep it.’ Kath shook her head. ‘She would want you to have it.’

‘Aye.’ The woman nodded gravely. ‘We’ll be back on Luke’s day. I’ll leave a sign that will keep you all safe, till then.’

Kath stood unmoving and watched her go. She walked with her head high, her back straight. And for three shillings and fourpence-ha’penny she would lift the curse from Ridings?

Would that she could.

Polly nodded her thanks to the ambulance driver, picked up Roz’s small suitcase, then shepherded her charge inside.

‘Come on, now. To bed with you like the doctor said.’

‘
Polly
! I’ve been in bed for the best part of a week and I feel fine. Let me stay downstairs for a while? I’ve missed this kitchen so, and this rocking chair.’

‘All right, then. Just as long as you don’t go dashing about undoing all the good that’s been done. I’ll make us a cup of tea, will I? Can you drink tea, now?’

‘I can drink tea.’ Her sickness was all gone, and her likes and dislikes. Her baby, too.

‘Sorry, lass. Didn’t mean anything by what I said. I’m sorry about the bairn. It would have been grand – a lad for Ridings, just like your gran always wanted.’

‘I know. But Gran never gave a son to Ridings, did she Polly, and neither will I, now.’

‘Oh? And why not, will you tell me?’

‘Because – well, I just won’t, that’s all.’

‘You will, Roz. One day you’ll be over the hurt of all this and one day, please God, you’ll conceive again.’

‘No, Polly! No! You don’t understand. I won’t. I
can’t
!’

‘Can’t?’ She poured boiling water into the teapot, her back turned away. ‘There’s no such word as can’t. I thought your gran always made that plain to you?’

‘Well, she didn’t. There were other things she should have made plain to me, but she didn’t. And I’m sorry, Poll, but I don’t want to talk about it – just leave it, won’t you?’