Reach for Tomorrow (33 page)
‘I . . . I didn’t know if you would come.’
When at last Flora moved away to look into her face, Rosie’s eyes were soft as she said, ‘Don’t be daft.’
‘I’ve done it all wrong, haven’t I? You . . . you must hate me.’
‘Do you hate me?’
‘No, but--’
‘Well then, how could I possibly hate you, you daft hen?’
‘Oh, Rosie.’ Flora was holding on to her again as she sobbed against her shoulder. ‘My poor mam, my poor, poor mam.’
‘I know, I know.’
The nurse had been standing at the end of the bed through all this and now, as Rosie caught her eye, she saw the young girl wasn’t so prim-faced after all, and there was sympathy in her eyes as she said, ‘You’re her friend? She’s been hoping you would come. I’m afraid she’s taking it hard, which is understandable in the circumstances. Are you staying for a while?’ And at Rosie’s nod, ‘Perhaps you’d call me when you have to go? We don’t want Miss Thomas left alone at the moment.’ ‘She won’t be left alone.’
It was another twenty-four hours before the Infirmary would release Flora into Rosie and Zachariah’s care, but mid-day Thursday, once a white-faced Flora was installed in one of the spare bedrooms, Rosie broke the news the doctor at the hospital had divulged to her when she and Zachariah had arrived that morning. Mr Thomas had been allowed home the night before. The police were satisfied that Mrs Thomas had fallen accidentally when Mr Thomas had been attempting to defend himself from his wife’s attack. There was absolutely no evidence, according to the police, to substantiate Flora’s claim that her father had beaten his wife and daughter in the past. And the fact that the argument had begun because Flora had refused to be interrogated by her father on the subject of her relationships with a wealthy shipyard owner’s son on the one hand, and a penniless ex-miner on the other, had even seemed to elicit some sympathy for Mr Thomas with the powers that be.
Flora had sat ashen-faced as Rosie had spoken and then she had slipped down beneath the covers, turned on her side and shut her eyes. Rosie had continued to sit with her until she was sure Flora was asleep - the medication the doctor had insisted on was strong - and then she had tiptoed downstairs and told Zachariah of Flora’s reaction to her father’s release.
‘Likely she’s still in shock, lass, an’ the journey home was enough for mind an’ body to cope with. She’ll discuss it when she’s ready.’
And it was later that day, when the murky grey light of the winter’s afternoon had begun to fade into evening, that Flora appeared in the kitchen as Rosie was kneading lumps of dough into loaves and putting them into small bread tins.
‘There you are.’ Rosie spoke as though Flora had popped out of the room a moment before. ‘Come and sit down and I’ll make some tea once I’ve finished this bread. How are you feeling?’
‘Awful.’ But Flora managed the semblance of a smile.
Rosie left the dough for a moment and walked across to give the wan figure a quick hug, saying as she did so, ‘You’re doing fine, lass. Awful though it is you’ll get through this, I know you.’ She pushed her down into one of the straight-backed chairs at the table before returning to the tins, and Flora glanced about her.
‘This is a lovely kitchen, Rosie, and you’ve got it looking real nice.’ Her eyes took in the big blackleaded range with its glowing fire, the rosy reflection on the steel-topped and brass-tailed fender and row of copper saucepans, and the general air of sparkling cleanliness married to warm cosiness.
‘It was like this when we moved in, I just keep it up to scratch.’ Rosie placed the tins along the fender and covered them with two clean tea towels before she placed the kettle on the hob. ‘It won’t take a minute to boil.’
‘I’m in no hurry.’ Flora tried to smile again but as her lips quivered Rosie hurried to her side, putting her arm round the narrow shoulders as she said quietly, ‘It’s all right to cry, Flora. Don’t try and hold it in.’
‘I just can’t believe they’ve let my da out.’ Flora looked up at Rosie, her eyes reflecting her bewilderment. ‘And as for him saying that my mam went for him, that’s such rubbish, Rosie, it is. I reckon he brought that carving knife upstairs to use on me, and when he couldn’t get at me he lost his temper with her and hit her and she lost her footing. Mam wouldn’t even
think
of going for him, I know that better than anybody. My mam’s put up with hell on earth over the years ’cos she was so scared of him. But I’m not going to let this drop. I want him done for murder ’cos that’s what it was.’
think
of going for him, I know that better than anybody. My mam’s put up with hell on earth over the years ’cos she was so scared of him. But I’m not going to let this drop. I want him done for murder ’cos that’s what it was.’
Rosie nodded, even as she thought, How would Flora cope with having to stand up in court and reveal the ill treatment she and her mother had suffered in silence for years? And Mr Thomas obviously wasn’t going to admit to it, he would lie and Flora would have to challenge him. It would be a dreadful strain on top of the terrible tragedy of losing her mother.
Flora’s mind seemed to be moving along the same channels because she next said, ‘’Course he’ll lie through his teeth, he’s started already. I . . . I did tell him that Peter was just a friend, but I didn’t say there was anything between Davey and me. He just assumed that ’cos he saw me out with him. Davey’s never said anything about us courting or anything like that.’
‘But you like him,’ Rosie said steadily as she walked across to the hob and lifted the kettle, bringing it to the kitchen table where she poured water on top of the tea in the brown teapot. Flora didn’t reply, and now Rosie turned to her, looking her full in the face as she repeated, ‘You like him, don’t you? It’s all right.’
‘You don’t mind?’
Mind? She minded so much she ached with it. ‘No, of course not. I have Zachariah, don’t I, and . . . and I want you to be happy.’ That sounded ridiculous in view of the present circumstances and Rosie quickly qualified it with, ‘Well, you know what I mean. I want you to have someone.’ And she did, she did. She just wished it had been anyone other than Davey so that she didn’t have to live a lie. But she and Zachariah could move away. She had already talked to him about a change of lifestyle away from the town, a smallholding or farm maybe, and he hadn’t been averse to the idea, only qualifying it by saying he would want them to wait until the bairn was born and she was completely back on her feet again. And if they left they would probably only see Flora and Davey once in a blue moon. She could cope with that, couldn’t she? And there would be the child, and others - God willing. That thought prompted her to say, ‘Did you know I’m expecting a baby?’ ‘You are?’ Flora’s face lit up, the haunted sad expression lifting for a moment, and she sprang up from her seat, reaching across the table and taking Rosie’s hands as she said, ‘Oh I’m pleased for you, I am, Rosie. Oh, that’s wonderful.’
Did she detect a certain element of relief as well as gladness in Flora’s voice? A recognition that a child, her and Zachariah’s child, was further substantiation that she was a married woman, soon to be a mother as well as a wife? Oh, what did it matter anyway? It was the truth. There could be no ‘wondering’ as to how things might have been, it simply wasn’t an option.
The two women continued to sit and talk as the sky outside became black and the wind began to howl a warning of the snowstorm that had been forecast earlier in the day. Flora cried some more as she spoke about the years of violent beatings she and her mother had suffered, and Rosie found herself marvelling at the endurance in the slim frame of the girl sitting across the table to her. She had thought her da and the lads dying, their subsequent poverty, her mother’s insobriety and Molly’s defection into degradation were enough problems for any family, but this with Flora, this was awful. To whom did you run when the very person who should be protecting you, loving you, was the source of all your pain?
Rosie took Zachariah a cup of tea at half past five and found him dozing in front of the sitting-room fire, and as she sat with him a moment before returning to Flora she told herself, fiercely and silently, that she was lucky, she was so so lucky. Half of the folks round these parts - no, more than half, a darn sight more - didn’t know where their next meal was coming from. The mass of black-capped, dark-clothed men standing outside the pits and steelyards was growing every day, the dole queues were lengthening and it was only the soup kitchens keeping some families alive. The mine owners were talking of longer hours for less wages and holding out pit-head baths as some sort of inducement; better working conditions they called it. She knew how her da and the lads would have viewed that - the same as the rest of the men round here did. Insulting. ‘Carrots for donkeys’ she had heard one old miner’s wife describe it as in the Co-op, and everyone had agreed with her. How could pit baths fill hungry bairns’ bellies? And here she was in clover, with her bairn being born into luxury she couldn’t have dreamed of even a year ago. Aye, she was lucky all right. The broad idiom, which always came in moments of high emotion, made her think of her mother, and that led on to Flora’s mother, and she said, ‘I’d better get back to her, Zachariah.’
‘How is she?’
‘Fair to middling. I’ll call you once dinner is ready, we’ll have it in the kitchen, shall we? It’s cosier in there tonight.’
‘Fine, lass. Whatever suits you is all right by me.’
Yes, she was lucky all right. Rosie stood, bending and kissing the top of Zachariah’s fair head before she left the room.
Mr Thomas called three times in the following few days to speak to his daughter, and each time Flora refused to receive him. She had followed through on her threat to take the matter of her mother’s death further, and had gone to the police station and made a statement in which she accused her father of consistent unprovoked violence over a period of some fifteen to sixteen years, and also of attacking her mother on the night of her death with a view to doing her serious injury.
Following Mr Thomas’s third visit to the house Flora had verged on the hysterical; the strain of her grief and impotent rage and bitterness had boiled up as she had watched from an upstairs window while her father had argued with Zachariah on the doorstep. After that, Rosie made up her mind to go and see Mr Thomas. She would ask him to stop pestering his daughter and allow her some peace until the court case, which would now be inevitable due to Flora’s allegations. She didn’t tell Zachariah of her intentions, knowing he would disapprove; neither did she mention the matter to Flora who was still struggling to get through each day minute by minute, but she really feared for her friend’s state of mind if the visits were allowed to continue. Flora’s heartache at her mother’s passing was bad enough, but the gnawing resentment and fury she felt at her father’s refusal to admit to the true facts was eating her up.
On leaving the house the following morning with the excuse that she wanted to spend her Christmas club from the Co-op, Rosie went to Mr Thomas’s place of work, the Castle Street Brewery in Bishopswearmouth. On reaching High Street West she stood a while debating what she was going to say. The brewery, founded more than half a century before by the Vaux family, was a large and successful concern covering an area of some two acres with an extensive frontage to Castle Street, and Rosie knew Mr Thomas held a prestigious post in the business. She also knew he would not appreciate her visit. But . . . nothing ventured, nothing gained.
She took a deep breath and entered the grounds, walking past the rows and rows of large barrels that stretched as far as she could see, past the stables which housed the dray horses, looking for someone to direct her to the offices. She had no intention of wandering about in the brewery itself, which was vast with its spacious barley stores, kilning rooms, fermenting rooms and other departments. When she saw Mr Thomas she wanted to be cool and controlled, not hot and flustered. He had never liked her, and he was going to like her less after this visit.
The snow which had fallen the night before was inches thick outside the confines of the brewery, but Rosie saw that an army of workers must have been at it first thing because the cobbled grounds were swept clean, and a sense of order prevailed. It was an intimidating establishment and somehow set apart from the struggling world beyond its perimeters; she could see how Mr Thomas would revel in his authority in such an imposing and well-run business.
After a stable lad had pointed the way to Mr Thomas’s office - a route which required her to retrace her footsteps - Rosie was just about to enter the building when the man himself came out of a door just in front of her.
‘Mr Thomas?’ Rosie’s voice was high. There was a moment’s silence and then he turned and she knew immediately he had recognized her voice. ‘I . . . I need to talk to you.’ No, this wouldn’t do, she couldn’t hesitate or stammer with this man. ‘It’s important.’
‘It would have to be to bring you here.’ Strangely there was none of the antagonism or rage she had expected, his whole manner was quiet, even subdued, and Rosie stared at him uncertainly for a moment or two more before Mr Thomas said, ‘I was just leaving. Do you want to walk along with me?’
Rosie swallowed hard and then she spoke just as quietly saying, ‘Yes, all right, thank you.’ He had taken her aback. None of this was going at all as she had envisaged, and Mr Thomas himself bore no resemblance to the strutting, upright, cold individual she had always known.
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