A Nurse's Duty (29 page)

Karen and Gran moved into the farmhouse kitchen where the
shadows
were already gathering and a warm fire was lit against the chill of the evening. Karen relaxed visibly and took off her hat, refusing to think about the letter in her pocket.

‘Now then, lass, tell me what has happened to you since I saw you last. How did you like working in Essex? Are you glad to be back up here?’

‘Oh, yes, Gran, I am glad to be back, and especially glad to be back in Weardale. I’m so glad to see you.’ She gave the old lady an impulsive hug which was returned with interest. Brown eyes smiled into brown eyes with loving accord.

‘We’ll have our tea then,’ was all Gran said. Nothing else was needed. She bustled around laying the table with ham and pease pudding, sour milk scones and bramble jam. An iron kettle was bubbling on the fire and she pulled it forward, steadying it on the brass rail before mashing the tea. She covered the brown teapot with a patchwork tea cosy and together they pulled up the bare kitchen chairs to the table.

‘Eeh, I am glad to see you lass, I am. We’ll have a good crack when we’ve had our tea, eh?’

‘Aye, Gran.’ Karen slipped easily into the local way of talking. She sat down at the table and Gran poured the tea. They both had healthy appetites, even Karen who had been off her food lately, and made short work of the meal. Afterwards Karen sat back with a sigh of repletion and looked at Gran.

‘Mr Bainbridge said you weren’t very well?’ she said. Gran was never ill, the idea was strange to her. Karen had always thought she would go on forever.

‘It’s nothing, just a cold, it’s about better. Really what I wanted to do was tidy up for you.’

Karen laughed as she glanced round the spotless kitchen. Tidy up, indeed. But she was relieved all the same, though not quite sure Gran was telling the truth.

‘Aye, well,’ she said, ‘we’d best get the stock fed and locked
up
for the night. Are you going to give us a hand? We can have a long talk after, eh?’

At a quarter to eight, all chores finished, the two women got down the mat frame which stood by the kitchen wall and started work together on the intricate pattern which Gran had chalked on the harn. The bright strips of cloth were sorted into heaps and they set about working the strips into the fabric with sharp pointed prodders.

It was steady repetitive work, needing little thought, so the women could chat away without wasting time. Karen could remember many an evening when she and Kezia had sat on either side of the frame, prodding away and being watched critically by Gran. And she would tell stories. She always had a great fund of stories about the lead-mining days when the valley was full of men and their families.

After some small talk, news of the dale being exchanged for news of the colliery village, Gran brought the conversation round to what was on her mind, what had been bothering her since she first got the letter from Karen to say she was coming up to stay with her for a while and which had bothered her even more when she saw her granddaughter’s pale face and the dark circles under her eyes.

‘Now then, lass, you might as well tell me. It’s as plain as a pikestaff to me that you are expecting. And not too happy about it either, I see. Has Dave been home and gone off again? By, I could kill that man with my bare hands.’

She bent her head and prodded away furiously. Karen’s hands stilled over the mat, a piece of cloth, scarlet in her hand. The pause lasted for a couple of minutes before she spoke.

‘Oh, Gran, Dave’s dead. He was killed in the war. It’s not his fault, any of this. It’s not his baby. I’m sorry to bring this trouble to you. I didn’t know what to do and Kezia said …’

‘An’ who else would you bring it to?’ Gran broke in as Karen’s
eyes
brimmed with tears. ‘Don’t tell me it’s not Dave’s fault. If he hadn’t gone off like that, this wouldn’t have happened. I don’t believe for a minute you would have gone with anybody else if you’d still been married. Proper, I mean.’ Gran prodded on furiously, stabbing at the harn backing viciously, and Karen couldn’t help wondering if she could see Dave’s face in it.

‘Who is this man, anyroad? He got you into trouble and left you, did he? Lord’s sake, Karen, you’re no blooming good at picking a man and that’s a fact. How you can be so barmy I don’t know, you being the clever one in the family too, or supposed to be. You certainly don’t get such bad judgement from our side of the family, I can tell you. And you with such a good job and your mam so proud of you. And what about your mam, anyroad? You’ve not mentioned her yet. Does she know about this? It’s not going to do her any good, held how she is, now is it?’

Karen could not find the words for an answer, though in truth Gran didn’t seem to be looking for one. She jabbed away, the prodder going in and out like a piston, never pausing in her work. Her tongue kept pace with her hands, her tirade went on, and Karen saw she was getting through a prodigious amount of cloth. But now her voice rose as she thought of the trouble ahead, not least for her frail daughter. ‘Then there’s our own neighbours. I know we’re sparse on the ground here but we’re all friends and they go to the same Chapel as us. It’s not just on Sundays neither. What would we do without our social evenings and Bible classes and such? We’d have no life at all.’

It was true, thought Karen miserably as she bent her head over the mat frame. Though the landlords were the Church Commissioners as might be expected of this County Palatinate, it was Wesley who had taken the trouble to evangelize the dale with its wild, rough lead miners and limestone quarriers, and most of the folk left in the dale now were Methodists.

After a while, Gran laid down her prodder and gave her
granddaughter
a stern look. She had come to some decision, Karen saw.

‘Well, Karen, listen to me, this is what we’ll do. You’re a widow. So are a lot of poor women these benighted days. Nobody’s to know the bairn’s not entitled to a name unless we tell them. I know it’s not right but it cannot be helped. It’s not hurting anybody else. But just for myself, I want to know, was the man married? Is that the reason? Did he trick you, Karen?’

She sighed. ‘No, Gran. He didn’t trick me. And he’s not married except maybe to his church. Oh, Gran, he’s a priest.’

‘A priest?’

Gran looked puzzled, not understanding what Karen meant at first.

‘A Roman Catholic priest.’

Karen had finally managed to tell someone the truth but hearing herself blurting it out like that she could hardly believe it herself. Gran was stunned for a while, speechless. When she did find her tongue, her words were bitter.

‘A priest, eh? A blooming priest. No doubt smarming his way into your life when he knew all along it was bound to end badly. A sin for him and a sin for you but he gets away Scot free and you are left the scarlet woman.’

‘Oh, no, it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t,’ Karen was moved to protest. ‘It just sort of happened. We were both upset, a poor boy killed himself and it just happened. It was only the once. Well twice. It wasn’t Patrick’s fault.’

‘Only the once, eh? Well, they say that them that gets all the gravy don’t always get the pudding. And an Irish priest too, be blowed, judging by his name. Well, I’ve seen them, over at Wolsingham, and the nuns too. There’s a convent there.’ Gran bowed her head over the mat again, stabbing at the harn. ‘It’s him being a Roman Catholic though that’s the hardest to stomach. Eeh, Karen, what will your da say when he finds out? He’ll be proper mortified, he will that.’

Karen could think of nothing to say to that, it was the plain truth.

‘Anyroad,’ Gran went on, ‘it doesn’t make a ha’pennyworth of difference now whose fault it was or even who it was. We must just get on with it.’ She put down her prodder and began sorting through the strips of cloth for the colour she wanted. ‘You did wrong, lass, there’s no denying it. But I know you, you must have had some feeling for him or you would never have done it.’

‘I did, Gran. I still do. I can’t help it.’

‘Well, that’s the cross you’ll have to bear, isn’t it?’ Gran’s voice was sharp. Her hands trembled as she began to clear away the work and Karen felt like crawling under the stone flags of the floor to see her gran so upset through her. Gran saw Karen’s downcast face with the tears brimming and she softened.

‘Well, we’ll say no more about it now. Howay, lass, we’ll have a bite of supper. There’s one thing sure, you’re not the only one this has happened to, not by a long chalk.’

Karen helped roll up the strips of cloth and put them in the bag, putting it away in the corner cupboard. The mat frame went back against the wall and the kitchen was tidied once again.

‘I’ll fill the kettle.’ She went out into the scullery to the bucket of fresh spring water brought in earlier. Well, at least everything was out in the open at last, she told herself, but the thought didn’t bring her any consolation.

Sitting on the broad window-seat of the little bedroom overlooking the farmyard, with the rise of the moor beyond, Karen opened Annie’s letter again. Tucking her feet up inside her long flannel nightgown, she read it once more by the light of the candle she had placed on the ledge beside her.

There was a scrap of comfort, a tiny warm glow, in knowing Patrick had sought her out. He must not be completely uncaring. But why had it taken him so long? She pondered the question. All
these
weeks. If he had really cared he would have been in touch sooner, before she left Essex. Perhaps he simply felt guilty? Then there was the question, should she tell Annie to give him her address or not? Not, she thought, not if he was only motivated by guilt.

Karen’s doubts and fears seemed to solidify into a great aching lump in her chest, a lump she was beginning to know well. She stared out at the rowan tree, standing there so tall with a halo of silver where the moon was coming up behind it. Solitary, it stood guard over the small-holding and there was a sort of comfort in it. Karen’s thoughts wandered back to her childhood, how she and Joe and Kezia had made necklaces from the berries. They had used the trunk to hide behind in games of hide and seek. The flowers had been just the thing for garlands when they had played at being fairies. Deliberately, Karen kept her mind on those days. She felt she couldn’t bear to think of Patrick any more, not that night.

A shadow flitted from the back door and across to the field gate and Karen leaned forward to peer through the darkness. It was Gran, checking on the animals, she supposed. She leaned back and sighed. The night was peaceful. Only the whinny of one of the Galloways, Polly or Jess, sounded in the quiet. Karen stood up slowly in the darkened room and the peace of the place seeped into her. She would have her baby here and work on the farm, she decided. If money was short she would get work at the cottage hospital. She and the baby would be fine, they would survive.

For the first time she began to look forward to the baby’s coming. It would be a part of Patrick which would be hers and so doubly precious. Gran came through the gate, and seeing the light from Karen’s candle, waved. She opened the window and leaned out.

‘Everything all right, Gran?’ she called softly, afraid to disturb the magic of the night.

‘Grand, lass,’ came the reply. ‘Jess foaled all by herself, quite easily, a filly.’

‘That’s lovely, Gran. And a filly. That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Aye. She’ll fetch a fair price at the auction mart next year if we decide not to keep her. Well, get away in to your bed, the night air’s not good for you nor the bairn.’

‘Goodnight then, Gran.’

Karen half-closed the window as Gran let herself into the house. Blowing out the candle, she climbed into bed. She pulled the blankets up to her chin, feeling a sudden chill as a breeze sprang up from nowhere. Sleepily, she thought about what she would do tomorrow. First she would write and tell Annie not to let Patrick have her address. He was better off forgetting all about her. What good would it do anyway? He could not marry her and she knew she could not continue their relationship without marriage. Tomorrow she would write to Annie. She could send a card to Kezia and Mam and Da while she was about it. An owl hooted softly and its shadow swooped down into the farmyard. After a mouse, she supposed. Yawning, she turned over on to her side. Her long, exhausting day finally took its toll and Karen fell into a deep and restful sleep.

Coming out of the cow shed with a pail of milk in her hand, Karen paused to take a deep breath of air. Idly, her thoughts ran back over the last few days since she had come to the farm. They had flown by, she realized. It must be the rhythm of farming life. She hadn’t been sick that morning, nor the day before either, and her vertigo was disappearing, thank goodness. Taking the milk into the small scullery which did duty as a dairy, she poured some into the jug and the rest into a bowl to settle. Glancing up at the speckled mirror above the stone sink, she was pleased to see how fit she looked. The clean moorland air and outdoor life had brought a bloom to her cheeks and shine to her hair. She was finding the physical work pleasant too. She had been taught to milk at ten years old and found she hadn’t forgotten how.

Scrubbing out the milking pail, she looked out of the window at the gander. He and his two geese had come to recognize her and he stopped his menacing display every time he saw her. Dreamily, she scrubbed at the pail. She liked the animals; she had almost forgotten how she had loved them when she was small.

Some of the hens had hatched chicks and a number of lambs had been born to the ewes brought down from the fell in expectation. There was also Jess’s foal, so that altogether there was an air of new beginnings on the place which entirely matched Karen’s mood.

The baby moved within her, a tiny fluttering but stronger than usual, and Karen held her breath. That was the fifth time, she thought. Somehow it made him feel so much more real. For it was a he, she was sure. She smiled, feeling deeply at one with the natural world around her.

‘I think that’s the postman coming down the lane,’ observed Gran, coming in to put on the kettle for their morning break.