The Hungry Tide (20 page)

Will listened whilst John outlined the arrangements he had made. ‘My uncle and aunt will be arriving here in less than a week, so there isn’t much time. So what I suggest is, that you go tomorrow, first thing. You’ll need to stay a few days anyway to see the surgeon and get the limb fitted, and to have your boots made, and whilst you’re waiting you can help in the yard.’

What John didn’t tell him was that when placing the order with the bootmaker, in a fit of pique at his aunt’s obstinacy, he had told the bootmaker to spare no expense in making a good pair to ensure a perfect fit.

‘And thy uncle is willing to pay for all this?’ asked Will slowly.

‘Yes, I’ve already said so. We’re not saying that this will answer all the problems, it might even be very painful for you, but it’s worth a try, and it might just make up a little for—’ He wanted to say for his aunt’s behaviour, but felt there had to be family loyalty.

‘I appreciate it, young John, don’t think I don’t,’ Will replied gruffly. ‘I’ll go as soon as it’s light.’

He didn’t say why he was going, just that he had instructions to go into Hull for a few days.

‘Take Tom with thee,’ said Maria. ‘He could go to ’Fair, and get me some stuff from ’market.’

Lizzie looked up eagerly from where she was sitting, a heap of crimson rose hips in her lap which she was preparing following Mrs Scryven’s instructions for making into syrup. She had gathered them this morning and in her eagerness to please had gathered a basket of blackberries as well, thinking that she could make jam as Mrs Scryven had done. She had reached into the middle of the thicket where the biggest ones were growing, scratching her arms and face on the barbed stems.

Then to her dismay the old lady had made her take them outside to leave for the birds, telling her, ‘Come October, ’Devil has spat on ’em.’ Such was Lizzie’s fright she had run pell mell, spilling half of them from out of the basket, back to the patch of brambles where she had found them, and flung them back amongst the tangled stems in case the Devil himself was waiting there.

Maria caught her look. ‘I know tha’d like to go too, Lizzie, but I need thee here with me.’ She nodded her head conspiratorially, and Lizzie smiled at the confidence.

‘Perhaps tha’ll ask about Lizzie’s brothers when tha’s there, Will? She’d like to know about them – find out if they’re doing well!’

Maria had heard the child at odd intervals crying softly to herself in some quiet corner where she thought she couldn’t be heard. She saw too how she clung to Tom, trusting him not to leave her, and being hurt when unwittingly he did just that, being unaware in his innocence of her dependence on him. She refused to go with him when he joined the older Reedbarrow boys in their games down on the sands, believing that she would be made the butt of their boisterous antics, and yet was upset when Tom went without her.

‘I’ll try, if there’s time,’ Will answered. ‘But it depends how long ’other business takes. I don’t want to promise, Lizzie, and then not be able to go, tha does understand?’

‘I’ll go and see them, Lizzie,’ Tom said determinedly. ‘After I’ve been to ’Fair. I’ll tell them that tha’s all right here with us and that it’s good living by ’sea.’

Maria smiled at his enthusiasm. That made three of her family happy at Monkston. Will had relaxed and was more like his old self, and Tom was full of his own importance because he was going to start work in earnest with Dick Reedbarrow. Alice was being spoilt by Ma Scryven, who was constantly plying her with syrups for her cough, and flummery made from eggs, wine and honey to build her up. There was just herself and Lizzie who were not quite happy with their new life; Lizzie because she missed her family, and Maria was saddened that she couldn’t do more to help the child, but perhaps when the new baby came Lizzie would be happier.

Possibly I shall be more settled too when the child is born, she thought, for she still felt uneasy and intimidated in the vastness of the unfamiliar landscape. She missed the slow, silent, muddy waters of the River Humber whose every mood she knew, and hated and feared the constant muffled moaning of the sea outside her door, which echoed unceasingly in her ears like some ancient, lingering lament.

‘I need to slip down to ’village with some stuff for that sick bairn. Will tha manage ’till I get back?’ Mrs Scryven looked keenly at Maria. ‘If I go now I’ll be back before ’rain starts, ’sky’s looking very black.’

‘I think so. I don’t think it’s time yet.’

The dark morning sky had been streaked with scarlet as the sun rose, heralding changeable weather. She had leaned against the door, watching Will and Tom move off in the cart, Tom’s face pink with excitement at the thought of going to the Fair and the promise that he could take the reins and drive once they were out of the narrow lanes of the village.

She hadn’t said that today she would give birth, but when she had woken before dawn and felt a tranquil calm enveloping her, preparing her for what was to come, she knew that today was the start of a new life. A new being of flesh and blood that had been content to cling in close subliminal embrace would now with seeming insensitivity inflict pain and torment in an effort to be free of her.

She didn’t tell them, because she knew that Will would want to stay. She preferred that he was out of the way so that she could concentrate only on herself and the infant she was about to bring into the world, without seeing his anxious face hovering above her and having to assure him that it didn’t hurt.

Mrs Scryven knew. She had watched her throughout the day getting slower and slower as she worked at her tasks about the Hall, stopping occasionally to stretch her back or lean against a table. She didn’t stop her or insist that she lie down, trusting that Maria would instinctively know when the time came.

‘I’ll go along home soon,’ said Maria, ‘I’m getting tired now so I’ll rest for a bit. There’s not much else I can do till ’other furniture comes anyway.’

Day by day waggons had been rolling up to the door laden with crates of pewter, silver and glass. Coffers lined with sweet-smelling herbs and filled with linen had been emptied, and the contents placed in the huge linen cupboard for airing. Fine rugs and velvet curtains made to specification in York and London were now in place waiting for the chairs, made to the design of Mr Hepplewhite, and the stuffed elegant sofas to arrive. French silk hangings and vallances which had been packed in crates had been carefully ironed and draped in sheets, ready to hang when the oak and maple four-poster beds arrived.

She sat down wearily in the kitchen after Mrs Scryven had gone and laid her head on the table. Please God, she prayed, let this babe survive, let me keep this one. Two infants she had lost within hours of birth, even though the midwife had each time successfully delivered them. They had failed to take the food which was fed to them at their first cry. The mixture of bread and milk mixed to a sloppy pap and placed into their tiny mouths by the midwife’s fingers had failed to nourish them, and even the cordial which the midwife had claimed was a miracle for ailing babies and made to her own special recipe could not sustain them. Maria had watched in great distress as her babies’ cries had grown weaker and they sank deeper into a sleep from which they never awoke.

When she had become pregnant with Alice her mother had taken charge of her, feeding her with her own potions and locking the door against the midwife. Alice, a tiny mite of humanity, slipped from her body with consummate ease and they thought that she was dead. Gently, her mother had wrapped her in a cloth and laid her in Maria’s arms that she might hold her for comfort before they took her away, but within an hour the baby with open mouth was nuzzling to her breast and feeding contentedly on her thin milk.

There was a loud knocking on the door leading up into the hall and as Maria raised her head from the table, John Rayner opened it and looked in. Maria rose to her feet, anxious lest he think she was slacking at her work.

‘I’m looking for Mrs Scryven,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling hungry and thought she might have some of that delicious game pie left from last night.’

She smiled at him. What an amazing appetite he had: he had already dined on ham and eggs and slices of beef, and a large portion of apple tart.

‘It must be the sea air that is making me hungry,’ he said laughingly, ‘or else Mrs Scryven’s cooking. That apple tart—!’ He rolled his eyes in ecstacy.

Maria laughed at him and moved towards the cool pantry where the pastries were kept. As she reached the door she was gripped by a sharp pain which made her gasp at its intensity. She clutched the pantry door and stood holding her breath until it had eased, and then brought out the pie and put it on the table. Again it came, the sharpness making her cry out.

John looked at her. ‘Are you all right Maria – Mrs Foster?’ He thought of her always as Maria, but some shyness made him hesitate over using her name.

‘Maria will do, Mr John,’ she gasped, ‘and aye, I’m all right. It’s just that I’m near my time, so begging thy pardon but I think tha’d better not stay.’

Hurriedly he picked up the plate and headed for the door. He hesitated. ‘But where is Mrs Scryven? Surely you won’t stay here alone?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m going to my own place. Mrs Scryven will come to me there, there’s plenty of time.’

Still he hesitated and as he did so she asked, ‘Perhaps if tha would be kind enough to give Lizzie a shout for me, she can help me across to Field House.’

He nodded nervously and went in search of Lizzie. Maria could hear him calling her through the house and outside in the yard. He came back shortly, running his hands anxiously through his hair. ‘I can’t find her, do you think she’s gone down to the sands?’

Maria closed her eyes in dismay. She remembered now that she had told Lizzie that she could take Alice down to the sea as long as they went down the village road and not by the cliff, and to be back home before dark. They were probably already at the house waiting for her.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I can manage, it’s not that far.’

‘Let me come with you,’ he insisted. ‘It’s starting to rain and there’s quite a wind blowing.’

She nodded and picked up her shawl. Perhaps she was leaving it rather late, after all. The pains were coming stronger now and she was taking deeper and deeper breaths to relieve the pressure. Suddenly she felt a trickle of warmth running down her legs and knew that her waters had broken.

‘I would be obliged if tha will help me across, Mr John, and then if tha could run and get Mrs Scryven.’ She stopped as another red-hot pain shot through her body, making her bend double.

He helped her out through the back door into the yard where they were buffeted by the driving rain and wind.

‘Maria, I think you should stay here and I’ll fetch Mrs Scryven. It’s madness for you to attempt to walk across the fields in this weather!’

‘I can’t stay here and have my babby, how can I?’ she cried. ‘Oh, how stupid I am, why didn’t I go back before?’ She was afraid now, afraid of giving birth out here in the open, in this desolate place, alone apart from the young gentleman at her side who took her arm so solicitously, but who was more afraid than she was.

They had gone only halfway across the first field when she felt her legs weaken and she clutched him for support. ‘I can’t go any further,’ she gasped. ‘Tha’ll have to fetch help, Mr John, I’m sorry to be such a trouble.’

As she sank down on to the wet grass she heard the relentless sound of the sea, as it beat and crashed against the cliffs in rhythm with the turmoil within her. In her hazy, confused state, above the noise of the wind, she thought she heard voices, one of them her mother’s, and she called out tearfully, ‘Ma, Ma, help me.’ And then, oh blessed relief, there was Mrs Scryven bending over her, her leathery face glistening with rain and her cloak soaking wet.

‘I guessed what had happened when tha wasn’t back at East Field. Lizzie and Alice are there and I’ve told them to stay put. We’ll have her back at ’Hall, if tha can manage her, Mr John.’

He half carried, half supported her back across the field, the rain lashing at them with fury, and into the welcome warmth of the kitchen, where he helped her off with her wet shawl and undid the laces of her boots as she leant against the table.

‘I didn’t want to have it here, what will ’mistress say when she finds out?’ she cried in distress.

Mrs Scryven looked at John, an unspoken question in her eyes.

‘Well, I don’t think there is any reason why she should know,’ he said slowly. ‘Mrs Masterson isn’t going to ask, she wouldn’t think of it.’

‘Quite right,’ Mrs Scryven answered briskly. ‘Now, sir, if tha wants to be useful, tha can help Maria up to my room; it’s a long way up to ’top floor but it can’t be helped, though I think we shall have to hurry by ’look of it.’

They climbed the back stairs from the kitchen and had reached the first landing when Maria cried out, ‘It’s too late – it’s coming!’

John let go of her for a moment and reached across to open another door which led to the main bedrooms. ‘Come in here.’ He led her into a room which had been made into a temporary bedroom for him when he had arrived unexpectedly the day before. Mrs Scryven had supplied him with linen sheets and fustian blankets, and had made him a bed up on an old truckle, apologizing all the while that a better room wasn’t ready.

There was a fire burning in the grate and he bent to put more coal on and give a better blaze.

‘I thank thee,’ said Mrs Scryven, pushing him firmly towards the door. ‘If tha would build up ’fire in ’kitchen and put a pan of water on to boil, sir, I would say tha’s done all tha can.’

He was halfway down the staircase when he was stopped in his tracks by a sound which sent a shiver running down his spine. He sat abruptly on the stairs. Poor Maria, he thought, poor sweet Maria! How brave she had been, and now to suffer such pain. He listened, but there was silence, and he felt now a cold dread. How could she possibly live through that? The cry reminded him of the torture that Will had gone through on board the whaler when the surgeon had sawed through his leg, and he felt sure that a woman could not possibly bear such painful torment as the cry suggested and make a recovery. What would he tell Will when he returned from Hull? How would he react to the news that his wife had gone from him?