Authors: Rita Bradshaw
The Rainbow Years (6 page)
The child settled on her lap and Muriel turned to her son again, ignoring the hurt she always felt at his lack of contact with his niece. He had a plateful to deal with at home, that’s what it was, she told herself. May kept a clean house and certainly with their eldest being just four and the youngest twelve months, and a two-and-a-half between, she did her duty as a wife. Their fourth was due in a couple of months an’ all. Aye, they were good Catholics right enough, but she wasn’t daft and she knew things weren’t right between her Ronald and his wife. There were times when he seemed as miserable as sin and didn’t speak May’s name for several visits. Mind, she knew what the root problem was. Just from the odd word Ronald let slip now and again, she knew May’s da had too much say in their going-on.
Course, they’d all been grateful when Terence O’Leary had set Ronald on at the Monwearmouth Iron and Steel Works where he was manager when her lad began courting May. Jobs hadn’t been so plentiful before the war and it had been a godsend, but sometimes she thought Mr O’Leary had all but bought their Ronald, mind, soul and body. And she herself had heard May remind Ronald that they were where they were today because of her da, which no man would like. He should give her what for but he was too soft.
Attacked by the feeling of disloyalty which always accompanied such thoughts, Muriel now said, ‘Thanks for poppin’ in, lad.’
‘I only come for the jam roll,’ said Ronald, the squeeze of his hand on his mother’s shoulder belying his words. He got to his feet. ‘I’d best make tracks now, Mam. I’ve got to—’
What he had to do Muriel never found out because the back door opening cut off his voice. The next moment Bess stood in the doorway from the scullery. There was a pause during which brother and sister stared at each other. Ronald hadn’t seen his sibling since the day Wilbur had gone to Monkwearmouth to inform his son of Bess’s fall from grace, as a result of which Ronald had declared his sister wasn’t welcome at his home any more. Bess had received this news in silence and hadn’t mentioned Ronald’s name since.
‘Hello, Bess.’ Ronald’s voice was flat but his heart was pounding against his ribs. He barely recognised the pretty, sparkling-eyed lass he had grown up with in the gaunt, sickly-looking woman in front of him, and the conscience which had pricked him more than once over the last two years was making itself felt.
Bess inclined her head but it was to Muriel she spoke, saying, ‘They’ve sent me home from work, they reckon I’ve got the flu and they don’t want it spreading any more than they can help. Half the girls are off as it is.’ And to Amy, who had struggled off Muriel’s lap at the sight of her mother and was now demanding to be picked up, she added, ‘Not now, hinny. Mam’s feeling poorly.’
‘Oh, lass.’ Depositing Amy back onto the clippy mat with her saucepan lid and spoon, Muriel took her daughter’s arm. ‘I told you you shouldn’t go in this mornin’, you looked middlin’ then.’
‘And have Da ranting and raving that I was swinging the lead?’ It was bitter. And then, as Bess swayed slightly and Ronald made a move towards her, she said grimly, ‘Don’t touch me.You don’t want to get contaminated, do you?’ And all three knew she wasn’t talking about the flu.
Ronald, his face the colour of beetroot, watched silently as his mother helped Bess to the table where she sank down on one of the hard-backed chairs. He was utterly at a loss to know what to say.
Muriel took pity on him.‘You get off, lad,’ she said quietly. ‘If this is the flu you don’t want to catch it, now then, not with the bairns, an’ May in her condition.’ She didn’t mention Ronald’s heart problem; he was a mite touchy about being reminded of what he saw as a weakness.
‘Aye, I’d better.’ But still he didn’t move. He licked his lips. ‘Bess?’
For a moment it looked as though Bess was going to ignore him but then she lifted her head. ‘What?’
His tongue passed over his lower lip again. ‘I . . . I hope it’s not the flu.’ Say it, he told himself. Tell her you’re sorry for how you’ve been. Tell her she’s welcome to call any time, the bairn too. But he couldn’t. The words were sticking in his throat and choking him.
Bess looked at her brother for a few seconds, her cheek-bones standing out under her pasty skin which held the faintest tinge of yellow. ‘I’ll cope,’ she said shortly. ‘Same as I always do. Anyway, Mam and I are a good team, aren’t we, Mam?’ She smiled at her mother before resting her head on her arms again. ‘I’m cold, Mam. Can I take the stone bottle up with me?’
‘Course, lass, I’ll fill it now.’ Muriel flapped her hand at her son as she bustled over to the big black kettle standing on the range. ‘You go, lad,’ she said again. ‘There’s nowt you can do here and doubtless she’ll be as right as rain in a week or two.’
Ronald cast a last glance at his sister before his gaze moved to little Amy who was happily engrossed in banging the saucepan lid. The child
was
bonny, there was no doubt about that, and where had those deep blue eyes come from? Had to be the father. For the first time since Amy had been born, he thought, Poor little mite. What a start in life she’s going to have. He walked over to his mother, touching the wrinkled cheek with his lips before he said, ‘Bye, Mam. I’ll see you on Friday then.’
was
bonny, there was no doubt about that, and where had those deep blue eyes come from? Had to be the father. For the first time since Amy had been born, he thought, Poor little mite. What a start in life she’s going to have. He walked over to his mother, touching the wrinkled cheek with his lips before he said, ‘Bye, Mam. I’ll see you on Friday then.’
‘All bein’ well, lad.’ Muriel inclined her head towards Bess. ‘We’ll see how things are.’ Once Bess was home from work on a Friday, she and Wilbur went to Ronald’s for a spot of dinner and a cup of tea most weeks. ‘I’ll let you know, shall I?’
Ronald hesitated before walking into the scullery and through to the backyard. Here he stood still, gnawing at his bottom lip before thrusting his cap on his head and pulling his muffler tighter round his neck. It was only the first week of October but already they’d had a couple of white frosts and the air today was raw.
Should he go back in there and make his peace with Bess? It was the perfect opportunity without his father about. He lifted his eyes to the sky which was low and heavy with dark clouds and seemed to be resting on the rooftops. His father wouldn’t thank him for it if he did; neither would May’s, for that matter. And May would take her cue from her da, same as she did on everything. Mr O’Leary had made it plain that a bastard in the family reflected on everyone, even the in-laws, and that he felt he ought to distance himself from his sister. But seeing Bess today, his heart had gone out to her.
A gust of wind carrying raindrops in its wake settled the matter. He’d best get off home before he got caught in the storm which was forecast; he could always call in and see Bess in a week or two when she was feeling better. Likely she’d be more inclined to accept the olive branch he intended to extend then anyway. Aye, that’s what he’d do, he reaffirmed as he strode off down the lane. And if May and her da didn’t like it, they’d have to lump it.
By the middle of October most of the schools in Britain had closed because of the influenza epidemic which was taking over two thousand lives a week in the capital alone. The disease was ruthless in its culling of a population already drained by years of war, and although there were now definite signs that the war would be over in a few weeks, no one was rejoicing, least of all Muriel. She stood now in Bess’s bedroom listening to her child’s laboured breathing. Dr Boyce was examining her for the third time in as many days and although he made a little joke which elicited a wan smile from Bess as he gently pulled the covers up over her chest, Muriel knew he was worried.
Dr Boyce signalled for Muriel to follow him out of the room and down the stairs, and as she did so she was aware that the dull pounding ache in her head she had woken up with was getting worse, along with the leaden feeling in her limbs.
Dr Boyce turned to face her in the hall. ‘Normally I’d want Bess taken into hospital the way this bronchitis has taken hold but with the wards overflowing and half the medical staff laid up with the flu she’s probably better off where she is. If you can cope, that is.’
‘Cope?’ Muriel gazed at him, bleary-eyed. ‘Oh aye, Doctor. I can cope.’
‘Are you feeling all right, Mrs Shawe?’ Dr Boyce’s tired eyes narrowed. In spite of having been on his feet for nearly forty-eight hours, he still recognised the onset of sickness when he saw it.
‘Just a bit weary, Doctor.’
‘On second thoughts it might be better if I arrange for Bess to be admitted to the infirmary.’
Muriel’s head came up with a jerk of protest. ‘No, no, Doctor,’ she said hastily.‘You said yourself she’s better off here. I’m all right. It’s just that the bairn’s been up the last night or two. Teethin’, she is.’ And then, in something of a rush, she added, ‘But she’s a good bairn, Doctor, an’ I don’t say that just because she’s our own. Happy as the day’s long, she is, an’ when I think of the time when our Bess was carryin’, that’s a miracle in itself. If ever a bairn shouldn’t have been born, this one shouldn’t, with all her mam had to put up with.’
The doctor’s voice was gentle when he said, ‘There is a fine dividing line between life and death, Mrs Shawe, and I’m convinced it’s more to do with the spirit than it is with the body.’
‘Aye, I reckon you’re right there.’ Muriel nodded. ‘Our Bess has always been strong in herself - a fighter, you know?’
The good doctor didn’t say what he was thinking, namely that however strong Bess might have been, Amy’s difficult delivery followed by the gruelling work in the munitions factory and her father’s continuing ill treatment had all taken their toll, body, soul and spirit. Instead he smiled and patted Muriel’s arm. ‘Like mother, like daughter.’
‘Oh, I’m not a strong person, Doctor.’ Pink with embarrassment, Muriel fiddled with her pinny. ‘Not like our Bess. She’ll rally round from this flu in a bit an’ be as right as rain, you mark my words.’
‘I hope you’re right, Mrs Shawe, but I shall pop in tomorrow about this time and have a look at her.’ Dr Boyce made his way to the front door, stepping down into the street beyond before saying, ‘Rest as much as you can, won’t you?’
‘Oh, I’m all right, Doctor, an’ thank you.’ Muriel did the curious little movement which was somewhere between a bob and genuflection, and which she kept for the priest and doctor alone, before shutting the front door.When she turned to face the stairs, everything swam for a moment and she put out a hand to the wall to steady herself. Ee, she’d better have something to eat. She’d skipped breakfast this morning because she hadn’t felt too good; likely that was the reason she felt a bit funny now. Whatever, she couldn’t be sick.Who’d look after Bess and the bairn if she was sick?
When Dr Boyce returned to the house in Deptford Road the next morning, which was a Saturday, it was Kitty who opened the door to him, Amy in her arms. She explained how she’d called round to see Bess a little while before and found Muriel all but collapsed in the kitchen. ‘I’ve sent her to bed, Doctor,’ Kitty said earnestly. ‘I can take care of things over the weekend, and me mam’ll have Amy during the day come Monday when I’m at work. Just till Bess is on her feet again.’
‘How is Bess?’ the doctor asked, glancing up the stairs as he took off his coat.
‘Well . . .’ Kitty hesitated for a second before saying, her voice low, ‘She seems right poorly to me, Doctor.’
A swift examination confirmed that further complications had set in, pneumonia being the biggest threat. And when Bess made only a token protest at being sent to the Sunderland infirmary, Dr Boyce knew she was aware of just how ill she was.
Muriel was hot and feverish and barely coherent when he walked into the second bedroom, but on hearing he was proposing to send Bess to hospital, she struggled out of bed to prove how much better she was feeling, with the result that she fainted clean away in Dr Boyce’s arms.
By the time Wilbur came home at midday, the house was very quiet. He stopped dead on the threshold to the kitchen, eyeing Kitty who was stirring something in a pan on the stove.
‘Hello, Mr Shawe.’ Kitty was terrified of Bess’s father and it showed as she gabbled, ‘The doctor’s been and Bess is in hospital and Mrs Shawe is in bed. Amy’s with me mam and she’s said she’ll keep her until things sort out with Bess. I’ve stripped Bess’s bed and Mam’s soaking all the stuff in our poss tub ready for Monday’s wash so there’s nowt for you to do. Do . . . do you want to go up and see Mrs Shawe?’
Wilbur kept her waiting for some ten seconds before he nodded at the pan, raising his eyebrows.
‘Oh, it’s some of me mam’s rabbit stew,’ Kitty said in answer to the silent enquiry. ‘I tried to get Mrs Shawe to have a little but she couldn’t. Mam’s put in a good few dumplings for you . . .’ Her voice dwindled away.
Wilbur was enjoying himself. Kitty’s fear amused him. He had always considered her the runt of that litter next door and her friendship with his daughter irritated him.
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