Through Glass Eyes (8 page)

‘A safe journey,’ Lucy shouted, when the train jerked forward.

James trotted alongside the compartment, until he reached the end of the platform. As the engine clattered across the points and the train slowly turned away, the hand waving the white handkerchief disappeared from view.

The station was smoky and cold. Outside in the centre of the city’s square the sun glinted on the huge bronze statue of a black-clad knight mounted on a prancing steed.

‘The Black Prince,’ said Lucy. ‘His name was Edward also.’

‘Was he a king?’

‘No, but he was a great horseman and leader.’

‘One day I will be like him’ James said.

Lucy did not reply.

It had been pouring for more than three hours. At times the rain, pelting against the kitchen window, sounded like tiny stones. The lane had become a river and a tributary was pouring under the gate into the front garden. A large pool had formed outside the front door and water was beginning to seep into the hallway. 

Lucy was worried. James often rode for several hours on Sunday mornings but he was always back well before it was time to sit down for dinner. It was over an hour since she had taken the roast out of the oven and now it was almost cold.

The sound she heard was his boot thumping against the kitchen door. ‘Mum! Quick! I need help!’

Alarmed, Lucy opened the door to find James standing in the rain, shivering violently. His hair was stuck to his face and neck, his shirt sopping wet and in his arms, he was cradling a child. She was wrapped in his overcoat.

‘Goodness, James. What happened?’

Carrying the young girl into the living-room, he set her down on the sofa. ‘Take care of her, Mum. I must get some help.’

‘But what happened? Where did you find her?’

‘On the moors.
A wagon had turned over. Lost its wheel. The driver was killed – crushed underneath it. I didn’t see the child at first. She was cowering in the heather, wet through and freezing cold. At first, I couldn’t make her understand me. I don’t think she is injured but she wouldn’t speak.’ He turned to the door. ‘I must get some help and go back. There may be someone else out there. I’ll take Edward’s horse.’

‘But you’re soaked to the skin! At least dry yourself.’

‘I’ll be all right. But I’ll take my coat.’

Lucy slid it gently from around the child whose eyes were open but staring blankly ahead.

‘Be careful,’ Lucy said, helping him into his wet overcoat.

‘I will.’

As soon as he left, Lucy dried the girl’s face and hair. But her clothes were soaking wet. After wrapping her in a blanket, she filled the hot-water bottle and laid it carefully between the covers. Pushing the sofa closer to the fire, she added some wood.

With difficulty Lucy coaxed the girl to drink a little of the sweet tea she had brewed. ‘What’s your name?’ she whispered, but the girl did not answer. Her hands were clasped tightly together, the knuckles squeezed hard against her cheeks. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Lucy stroked her wet hair and hummed the nursery rhymes she used to sing to James. It was not many minutes before the drooping eyes closed and Lucy felt confident to leave her alone, just long enough to search for something suitable to dress her in.

Hurrying up the stairs, she remembered the calico bag in the bottom of the wardrobe. It was full of linen and old clothes, including the nightshirts James had grown out of. One of the smaller ones would fit the child. Reaching in, she found an old cardigan. It had shrunk and no longer fitted her. There were woollen socks too which were also too small.

Humming softly and without waking her, Lucy slipped off the girls’ wet clothes and pulled the nightshirt over her head. The cardigan sleeves were far too long so she rolled them over several times. Lucy estimated the girl was the size of one of Sally Swales’ daughters – about nine years old.

It was after six when Lucy heard sounds from the lane. From the front door she could see her son and at least four other men with horses. The rain had stopped, but water was still streaming into the garden. James invited one of the men into the living room. ‘Mum, this is Sergeant Wilkey.’

The man tipped his hand to his wet hair and leaned over the little girl. ‘How is she, Missus?’

‘She’s sleeping,’ Lucy whispered. ‘She drank a little tea and warm milk, but she won’t eat anything.’

‘Has she said anything to you? We have to know where she came from.’

‘She hasn’t spoken.’

He turned to James. ‘And you say she didn’t speak to you either?’

‘Never uttered a sound.’

‘Can you keep her here tonight, Missus? Just until we find who she belongs to.’

‘Of course.’
Lucy turned to James. ‘Did you say her father was dead?’

The sergeant answered. ‘There was a man’s body under the wagon. But we can’t be sure it’s the little lass’s dad. Even if he is, they must have other folk somewhere and before long they will be out looking for them. Until that happens I shall have to notify the authorities and the girl may have to be taken into care.’

‘She can stay here,’ Lucy said defensively, recalling stories she had heard of the orphans’ asylums. ‘You can’t move her now. I’ll look after her.’

The sergeant sounded relieved. ‘Right then! We’ll leave her where she is till the morning. Let her have a good sleep. As for myself, it’s been a long day and I’ve got to get that body down to the morgue.’ As he turned to go, he took James’s hand and shook it. ‘You did a good job, young fella. If you hadn’t come across them when you did, I reckon we’d have had two bodies by the morning.’

Lucy followed them to the door.

‘If you have any problems with the lass, your son knows where to find me.’

James watched the men ride away before walking the horse to the back of the cottages and the stable he had helped Edward build. By the time he came in he was tired but had no appetite for food. At Lucy’s insistence, he swallowed one slice of meat, ate a cold potato, and drank a cup of cocoa, before going to bed.

The little girl asleep on the sofa looked pale and delicate. Seeing her lying there reminded Lucy of Miss Beatrice, the delicate child in the four-poster bed at Heaton Hall. She reminded her of the expensive French doll which had once rested in the crook of a little girl’s arm. The expensive doll she had stolen. The same doll she had forgotten about since she had moved to Horsforth. It had been packed away for more than five years but it was about time it was brought out and put to good use.

Chapter 7

Constance

Working by the window in the dim light of early dawn, Lucy busily stitched the pieces of cloth together. She had cut the doll’s blouse from a piece of white cotton sheeting she had put aside for patches, and the tunic from an old twill skirt. The cloth was coarse, rusty brown in colour and faded in parts and it was not exactly the material she would have wished to make a doll’s school dress from. But it would suffice. After cutting a length of yellow ribbon to serve as a sash, Lucy was satisfied with the result. All that remained was to gather the stitches around the cuffs and sew a hem around the bottom of the skirt. The doll’s lace socks and buckled shoes were the ones it had been wearing when she had taken it from the Hall but they were still satisfactory.

When Lucy threaded another length of cotton, she realized the girl had woken and was watching her work. ‘Would you mind helping me?’ she asked.

Sitting up, the girl nodded and held out her hands. Lucy kneeled down beside her and placed the doll into her lap. ‘There,’ she said, carefully slipping the blouse and school dress over its head. Then she slid the sash around the doll’s waist and tied a neat bow at the back. Picking up the lengths of cotton around the doll’s wrists, she gathered them in tightly and fastened them off.

James stopped at the bottom of the steps. ‘I see you have a helper.’

‘Indeed,’ said Lucy. ‘We will be finished in a moment.’

The girl watched intently as Lucy ran a line of stitches around the hem. When that was done, the school tunic was complete.

‘Now I will make some breakfast,’ Lucy said.

Crouching down beside the girl, James took hold of the doll’s right hand. ‘And what is your name?’ he said, addressing the wistful smile on the porcelain face.

The girl replied in a whisper, ‘Constance.’ 

Glancing across to his mother, James winked. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Constance,’ he said, shaking the doll’s hand graciously. Then he turned his eyes to the little girl. ‘And what is your name?’

‘Alice,’ she whispered.

‘Hello, Alice. My name is James.’

‘James,’ she repeated.

Lucy smiled, as she laid the breakfast cloth on the table. ‘I didn’t know you had a way with children.’ 

‘And I didn’t know you still had that old doll. I remember it vaguely from Loftholme Street. I seem to recollect you were fond of it.’

‘Yes! And you and Sam Swales were going to use it for Guy Fawkes.’

‘Was I really going to do that?’ James asked.

Still stirring the porridge, Lucy smiled at her son.

‘After breakfast I’ll ride down to the police station. Sergeant Wilkey may have some news.’

‘Good news, I hope.’

Alice wasn’t listening, she was brushing the tufts of brown hair bristling from the doll’s crown.

‘When I come back, I will find something to fix that,’ James said.

The girl looked up at him expectantly, her large brown eyes following his every move. When he donned his coat and hat, she slid off the sofa. ‘Can I come with you, James?’ she begged, her tone faintly anxious.

‘No, you must stay here and look after Constance,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘Sergeant Wilkey said there have been no reports of missing persons. But he thought, because the accident happened on the moors’ road, it’s possible the pair were not from around these parts.’

Lucy sighed. ‘So what will happen to Alice?’

‘The sergeant asked if she could stay with us a little longer. He said we might get a visit from the Welfare Board, but it’s just routine and you’re not to worry.’ James looked at his mother. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just a little tired. I suppose I am missing Edward. I wish he was here now.’

‘Cheer up. Let me show you what I have,’ he said, pulling a small animal skin from his pocket. ‘It’s from a kid goat,’ he said.

Lucy turned it over in her hands. The skin had been tanned and was soft and pliable, one surface was roughened like suede, the other covered in tight black curls.

‘I’ll cut a piece to fit the doll’s crown,’ James said, ‘then I’ll glue it on and it will give the doll a fine head of hair.’

When Alice woke the following morning the doll, she had named Constance, was lying beside her. The sight of its new curly wig sent her dashing outside to find James to show him. But James had left for school already.

Though Lucy spent the whole day talking with Alice and playing games, the girl was not content until James returned home. After dinner that evening, Lucy watched from the garden, as James led one of the horses around the meadow with Alice mounted on its back. She was sitting astride the big mare, a hunk of mane grasped in one hand and Constance gripped securely in the other.

It was Thursday afternoon when the knock came at the door. Sergeant Wilkey was on the doorstep with a primly dressed lady of middle age.

‘Mrs Oldfield,’ the sergeant said. ‘This is Alice’s great-aunt, Miss Pugh.’

Lucy knew the call was inevitable. As she ushered the visitors into the living room, she tried to smile.

‘Miss Pugh is from Ilkley,’ Sergeant Wilkey said. ‘She is the aunt of Alice’s father, the man who died on the moors.’

Lucy expressed her sympathy and listened while the woman explained that she had been caring for Alice’s mother who had been heavily pregnant and poorly too.

‘Yellow skin and swelled ankles,’ said Miss Pugh, the stern expression on her face never faltering when she spoke. ‘Not well at all. Doctor recommended bed rest until the baby was born. Least I could do for my nephew was to look after his wife. I knew he couldn’t manage to see to her, what with work and the little one to mind, and her not being well and all.’

Miss Pugh said her nephew rented a house in Horsforth, not far from Lucy. She also said she knew he’d planned to drive to Ilkley the weekend of the accident, but when he’d failed to arrive, she blamed it on the rain. Knowing he only had the open wagon, she presumed he’d decided to postpone the visit until the following week.

‘Never gave it a thought that anything might be wrong,’ the woman said.

The sergeant added that when he spoke to Mr Pugh’s neighbours, they also hadn’t thought anything was amiss. They’d seen him leave in the wagon, but when he never got home that night, they thought he’d decided to stay with his sick wife.

‘Don’t know what would have become of the little lass if your boy hadn’t found her that afternoon,’ the sergeant said.

The only good news from the whole wretched affair was that Miss Pugh had helped deliver a baby boy on the previous Tuesday. The infant was small and frail but the doctor thought he would survive. Unfortunately, Pansy, her niece was still far from well and the loss of her husband had been a setback to her recovery. Miss Pugh insisted the young mother and baby stay with her in Ilkley until they were fit enough to return home. But, for now, she was here with Sergeant Wilkey to collect her great-niece and take her back to Ilkley with her. 

Saying goodbye was not only difficult for Lucy, it was confusing for Alice. The little girl was fearful of the sergeant who spoke in a gruff voice and was extremely tall, even without his helmet. She was also wary of her great-aunt who carried herself stiffly, never smiled, and had a strange vacant look in her eyes.

Not understanding what was happening or where she was to be taken, Alice clung to Lucy’s skirt. Her plaintive pleas upset Lucy. She had enjoyed having the little girl in the house but it was obvious that Alice must now return to her mother. ‘Take Constance with you,’ Lucy said. ‘You can look after her now.’