A Nurse's Duty (34 page)

‘By, I’m glad we got the hay in,’ she said with satisfaction while cutting thick slices of bread and coating them liberally with butter. She chatted on during the meal, taking Patrick at face value, never looking deeper, very matter-of-fact. She was a treasure, was Gran, thought Karen.

The evening passed pleasantly as they relaxed after the week’s work and Gran told stories of when she was young and the farmhouse was full of brothers and sisters and the fine time they’d had together. And the hard, gruelling work.

‘Of course, the dale was busy with lead miners then,’ she said, ‘and fierce, independent chaps they were an’ all. Considered themselves better than “outsiders”, Teesdale men and such like.’

Slowly Patrick relaxed further, giving Gran a smile of encouragement when she paused, challenging them to deny some of her wilder stories. Karen was in a happy mood as she climbed into bed where Patrick put his arms around her in spite of the warm night, holding her gently as though she might break.

*

The last few weeks of Karen’s pregnancy went quickly and quietly. Patrick was slowly hardening to the work though he would never be like the other men of their dale. He was not quite so deft and economical in his movements though he was never clumsy or inept. His hands had hardened and no longer blistered so easily but they were still the hands of a ‘gentleman’ with long tapering fingers and well-shaped nails, even though he came from a working family himself. He tanned, but his skin had not the leathery look of those who had spent all their lives out of doors. Sometimes Karen thought about how deft he had been with the wounded soldiers. The thought brought a niggling doubt, he had been more sure of himself then.

‘At least the baby won’t starve if your milk fails,’ commented Gran to Karen one day. She was admiring the two new milking stools Patrick had made to replace the ancient ones which were falling to bits. In August the red cow had calved and there were now two cows to milk.

‘Our baby won’t starve,’ said Patrick, smiling at his wife. And if hard work counted for anything that was true. He never stinted, mused Karen. He mowed down the nettles in the pasture bottom, carted lime and manure to improve the land in-bye, and sledded down bedding for the moor in readiness for the winter when the stock would be brought in. There was always something to do.

One afternoon Patrick was up on the fell cutting bedding. It was early September and a fair, sunny afternoon, though with a touch of autumn in the wind. Karen fed the hens and afterwards walked over to the rowan tree, bowl in hand, and rested for a moment with her back against the tree, gazing out over the fell. With one hand she rubbed the small of her back, where it ached a little.

It was then she noticed the trap coming up the track. Strange, she thought, it wasn’t the carrier’s day and she couldn’t think of anyone else who could be visiting at this time.

Shading her eyes against the afternoon sun she tried to make out who the visitors were, but couldn’t recognize the two men at that distance. Recollecting herself, she turned and went back into the house to tidy up and get rid of the feed bowl. She was back at the door as the trap entered the yard and the first thing which struck her was the clerical dress of the men.

Oh, God, she thought, and her stomach lurched. The baby moved restlessly within her. She stood dumbly as they descended from the trap and walked towards her.

‘Good morning. We have come to see Patrick Murphy.’

The older man spoke in the clipped, impersonal tones of a man used to exerting authority.

‘He’s not here.’

Karen’s answer was just as brief as she stood blocking the doorway, arms folded over her bulging apron in instinctive protectiveness. Hearing voices, Gran came out to see who it was at the door and with only one glance at her granddaughter, Karen’s agitation was communicated to her and she came and stood foursquare beside her.

‘What do you want?’ She stared with uncompromising hostility at the two men. If this was trouble then Karen was not going to face it on her own, not in her condition.

‘We wish to see Patrick Murphy,’ the older priest repeated.

‘Well, tho’ cannit,’ Gran replied flatly. ‘Ee in’t ’ere.’ Her accent had broadened in her determination to send these men on their way.

‘Will he be long away?’ This was the younger man and he asked his question of Gran, studiously avoiding looking at Karen.

‘Aa wadn’t knaa.’ Gran felt very strange. This was all in sharp contrast to her usual warm welcome for strangers. But she stood her ground while she could feel her granddaughter trembling beside her.

‘Sean, why can’t you leave us alone?’ pleaded Karen.

The older man’s face purpled. ‘
Father Donelly
is doing his duty,’ he snapped.

‘Away inside, Karen,’ Gran ordered her granddaughter. ‘Gan on, bide in the parlour a while.’ She gave Karen a little shove and blindly she fled indoors.

‘May we wait for him?’

This was Sean, a man who had lived among women such as Jane and thought he knew how to deal with them. In this case he was wrong.

‘Nay, that wouldn’t be wise of me now, letting you wait here, would it?’

Now that Gran had calmed down a little she was unconsciously returning to a more standard form of English. ‘I have my granddaughter to think of.’

‘If you could just tell me when he will be back …’

But Gran had lost patience. ‘This is not a good time, I tellt ye, din’t I? If you had eyes in your head, man, you would see this is not a good time. Let the lad be. Let them both be.’

The priests looked at each other, considering their next move.

‘Let it lie I tell you, let it lie!’ Gran’s voice rose and she started to close the door.

Sean put out a hand and held the door open while he said: ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Rain. Tell him we’ll be in Wolsingham though, will you? I am his friend, the priest over at Weston.’

‘Get your hand off my door,’ she said, her voice low but full of threat. Sean pulled away and stepped back from the door

‘Good morning to you, Mrs Rain,’ he said courteously, and the men retreated to the trap. Clucking to the horse, the older man turned it round and they made their way back along the track. Gran stared after them, dismay welling up in her. She’d be blowed if she told Patrick anything of the sort, she fumed silently. Not before the baby was born, anyroad. It would only upset things.

‘It’s all right, flower, never you mind,’ she comforted a woebegone Karen waiting in the parlour. ‘They’ve gone now and it doesn’t matter, it makes not a ha’porth of difference.’

‘But Patrick …’

‘He doesn’t know they were here and if you’ve any sense you’ll not tell him. It will only upset things.’

Gradually she managed to calm Karen down and presently she began preparations for supper.

‘Here’s Patrick now.’

Gran saw the tall figure coming into the yard and turned to Karen who was still slumped in the rocking chair by the fire. ‘Now, come on, pet, smile. Don’t let him see you’ve been upset. Go on, go and meet him.’

Karen smiled dutifully and, straightening her apron, went to the back door. Crushing down her anxiety, and with her will bolstered by Gran’s, she hurried over to the barn where he was unloading the sled.

‘Oh, Patrick, I’m so glad to see you.’

She went up to him and hugged him, her smile radiant. A flicker of surprise came into his eyes before he responded to her unspoken appeal and kissed her thoroughly.

‘I wasn’t so long as all that, was I?’ he said teasingly, his brogue endearing him further to her.

She blushed slightly but said nothing, watching him for a while, happy again. No one was going to separate them. They were married, weren’t they? She twisted the gold ring round and round on her finger, self-confidence returning. The threat posed by the afternoon’s visitors faded and blended with that of the occasional nightmare which still plagued her, frightening at first but unreal in broad daylight.

The evening shadows were lengthening and a cold wind stirred the leaves of the rowan tree as she waited. Patrick paused in his work and put a hand on her shoulder.

‘Go on in now, I won’t be long. You’ll catch a chill if you stay out here, the night’s turning cold.’

Obediently Karen nodded and went into the house, happy to do his bidding.

Chapter Twenty-One

‘THE POSTMAN’S COMING
along the lane, Gran,’ said Patrick as he came inside to wash his hands for breakfast some days later

‘He can have a cup of tea then, I’m just about to make it.’

Gran filled the large, brown teapot and set it on the table, followed by three plates of bacon and eggs. Then she brought another pot for the postman, together with a plate of fresh made singing hinny scones.

‘A few letters today, missus,’ he said as he propped his bicycle against the wall, and, sure of his welcome, walked through. Gran pulled out a chair for him.

‘Would you like some breakfast? Or maybe a singing hinny?’

‘No thanks, not today. Just a cup of tea will be fine.’ He sat down at the table and put the bundle of letters before her.

‘It’s getting a bit nippy in the mornings now,’ he remarked, and rubbed his hands together before taking a long, appreciative swallow.

‘Young Joe Tyndale’s missing.’

Jack looked sombre. A man in his fifties, he was often the bearer of bad news to the people of the dale and sometimes it bore him down.

Gran clucked sorrowfully, but Karen didn’t hear. She was sitting oblivious to everything but the letter addressed to Patrick which lay on top of the pile. She continued eating mechanically, looking neither at Patrick nor Gran. It seemed to her to be an age before Jack got up from his chair, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand, thanked them and left. The scrape of Patrick’s chair made Karen jump convulsively and she stared up at him. But
without
a word he rose to his feet, picked up the letter, and strode out of the door.

‘What’s the matter with him?’ Gran had looked up in surprise.

‘Oh, nothing, Gran. He just wants to get on,’ Karen answered. She couldn’t trust herself to say anymore. Patrick never got letters, this was the first, she was thinking – and was filled with foreboding.

‘There’s a couple here for you.’ Gran was looking through the rest of the post. ‘And one for me.’ She held out two letters.

‘Karen?’

‘What? Oh, sorry, Gran.’ Karen took the letters and stared at the envelopes.

‘Must be something up. One from your father and one from Kezia,’ Gran commented as Karen opened the letter from Kezia and read it aloud.

Mam’s had a bad turn but seems to be pulling round again though she has lost some weight. The rest of us are fine. We had a letter from Joe too, he’s doing well.

I forgot to tell you at the wedding but just after you left home a tramp came looking for you. I had my hands full at the time, what with Mam and all, and gave him short shrift, I’m ashamed to say. Anyway, he went off and it was only after he had gone that I realized he only had one arm. Or at least there was something wrong with one arm, he kept his right side away from me.

I’ve felt guilty about it ever since as I think it might have been your disturbed soldier. I did tell him you were up the dales so he might show up one of these days. Well, that’s all, now I’ve told you about it. Let me know how you are, and about the baby and all.

Karen pondered over the letter for a while. If it was Nick why was
he
not still under a doctor’s care? And surely he had a pension, there was no need for him to tramp? For a short while her attention was diverted from her own worries.

‘Your mother has been bad again, I see,’ said Gran, who was perusing her own letter short-sightedly. Karen nodded.

‘Kezia says she’s getting better though.’ She opened her letter from Da.

He commented on Mam’s health in a similar vein to Kezia, praising God that she was now a little better. Then he came directly to the point.

The Catholic Father from Weston came to see us. [That would cause a minor sensation in the row, thought Karen.] I wouldn’t lie. He asked me if I knew where Patrick Murphy was and I told him.

Karen giggled hysterically, causing Gran to look up from her own letter in concern. The giggling turned to tears and Karen felt sick. Abruptly she rose, scraping her chair loudly on the flagstones as she rucked up the mat. Despite her bulk, she ran out of the house across the yard and on up to the rowan tree.

Patrick was nowhere to be seen. He had harnessed Jess and gone on up the fell somewhere. Karen closed her eyes and leaned against the trunk of the tree, her breathing fast and shallow and it was not just from the exertion.

Why can’t they leave us alone? she thought desperately. Now Patrick would know she had not told him about the visit from the priests. She should have told him … Karen leaned over and vomited on the grass.

A sharp pain shot through her, taking her completely by surprise, making her double over. No! Not yet! The baby wasn’t due yet. She straightened up slowly, holding her breath. The pain receded, leaving a dull ache through to her back, but her pulse still
raced
. It was only a few days early, she reckoned swiftly, reassuring herself. Maybe this was a false alarm, but then maybe it was the real thing.

Taking a deep breath, she set off to retrace her steps to the farmhouse. If she could only lie down for a while she would be fine. But she had only gone a little way when it hit her again, the ache intensifying until she doubled up once more. Panting heavily, she schooled herself not to cry out, hanging on so as not to alarm Gran until she was sure it was the baby coming. Until she was sure … Dear God, if this wasn’t the baby, what was it? Of course she was sure.

At last the wave of pain receded and she realized from her training that she should have sufficient time to reach the kitchen, even her bedroom.

A wry grin played around her lips as the thought crossed her mind that this wasn’t at all as she had thought when she had helped other women through it.

‘Now keep calm,’ she had said, ‘there’s nothing to worry about.’ She would just have to take her own advice. Karen resumed her careful progress to the back door, wary now of the return of the pain.