The Girl From Seaforth Sands (11 page)

Amy looked doubtful. ‘But we hardly know Mrs O’Hara,’ she objected. ‘Couldn’t we make her up a milk feed with conny-onny and water? Lots of women can’t feed their own babies, Mam told me. Why, she couldn’t feed my big brother, Charlie, when he was born, on account of getting influenza and being right pulled down by it. She said he throve on conny-onny, honest to God, Mrs Scott.’

‘We-ell,’ Mrs Scott said doubtfully. ‘I dare say you’re right, chuck. I were thinking your mam might be feedin’ her again in a day or two and forgettin’ it weren’t likely, not with puerperal fever. We’ll try the conny-onny, then, see how she takes to it.’

So Amy mixed condensed milk and water in a little jug, warmed it through and then offered the baby a tiny spoonful when next she awoke. Since the baby made no objection to the mixture Mrs Scott advised Amy to find a feeding bottle and teat, and see whether she would accept it. Amy knew where there was an old bottle – she had used it for her doll Betsy – but the rubber teat proved to be perished beyond recall, so Amy wrapped the baby in her shawl, got Albert to tie the shawl securely round her person and set off for the shops. She bought two rubber teats, returned home, and boiled them and the bottle on the stove, meanwhile nursing an increasingly indignant child to her breast, and at last, she was able to offer the baby the milk she was badly in need of. Despite the fact that Jane Rebecca had never before drunk from a bottle, let alone tasted conny-onny, she drank quite half the contents of the bottle, burped immensely and fell deeply asleep.

All this had taken some time, what with changing the baby’s napkin and bringing up her wind, but at last she was restored to her cradle and Amy started to worry about her mother once more. The doctor popped in three or four times, looking worried. Mrs Scott appeared and disappeared from the kitchen, and occasionally a neighbour popped in to ask how Mrs Logan did, for Isobel was a popular figure in the neighbourhood. Nevertheless the day dragged, with Amy feeling she was the only person in the house who was completely ignorant of what was happening in the bedroom upstairs. When teatime arrived the doctor came down and bade Amy boil up his instruments, tipping a number of wicked-looking objects into the small pan she offered him. When the water had boiled for five minutes Mrs Scott came down, drained it from the pan and carried it upstairs, telling Amy as she did so in a falsely jovial voice that things were beginning to look up at last. ‘Doctor Payne knows what he’s doing,’ she assured the anxious young people sitting around the kitchen awaiting some news, for by now the older boys had returned from their fishing trip. ‘Doctor Payne is going to let out some of the badness, so soon your mam will be right as rain, you just see.’

She disappeared up the staircase and the terrible waiting started once more. Amy could imagine only too well what must be happening in the bedroom upstairs; she had been appalled by the sharpness and number of Dr Payne’s instruments, and despite her best endeavours ghastly pictures of those knives and probes entering flesh would keep popping into her mind.

But for a long time nothing whatsoever happened. No one came down and, although Gus tiptoed to
the bottom of the stairs and stood, head cocked, listening, when he returned he could only report a soft murmur of voices coming from the bedroom and no sign of either doctor or nurse. In fact, Amy had begun to cut them some sandwiches and the kettle was on for yet more tea when Bill Logan came heavily down the stairs and into the kitchen. He stood in the middle of the room, staring straight in front of him and not appearing to notice any of them until Charlie, as the eldest present, went over and pushed his father gently into a chair.

Charlie was very like his father, tall and broad with soft, dark hair flopping over his forehead and a gentle, patient expression, but now anxiety was creasing his brow into a frown and his voice, when he spoke, was sharper than usual. ‘Well, Dad? What’s happening to me mam? . . . Is she . . . is she . . .?’

Bill Logan put his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands; for a moment he said nothing, then raised a haggard face and his eyes, full of pain, met those of his son. ‘She’s gone,’ he said huskily, his voice breaking. ‘They did all they could, it weren’t no one’s fault. Doctor Payne telled me it were pretty well hopeless right from the start; her temperature went sky high and he couldn’t get it down, nohow.’

Albert broke the silence that followed. ‘Are you sayin’ our mam’s
dead
?’ he asked. He got to his feet and, leaning across the table, actually seized his father’s hands and shook them. ‘Is that what you’re telling us, Dad? That she’s dead?’

For a moment Bill didn’t speak. Amy, staring at his bent head, was horrified to see tears trickling down his face. Then he gave a gulp, nodded his head and said, ‘That’s right, son. I can’t believe it
meself and that’s the truth, but she’s gone. Presently, you can go up and see her, I suppose that’s best, but . . .’

As his words died away Amy jumped to her feet. ‘It isn’t true, it can’t be true!’ she shouted into the sudden silence. ‘It’s that doctor’s fault, he hurt her with those shiny tool things and now . . . and now . . .’ She bolted for the back door as a babble of sound broke out behind her and was halfway across the yard when Gus caught up with her. He put his arms round her and gave her a hard hug, then walked her slowly back into the kitchen, one arm still across her shoulders. ‘We’ve got to face it, queen,’ he said gently. ‘Mam’s gone, and because she ain’t here no more we’ll need to hang together and take care of one another, because that’s what she would want. No one can run away from sorrow because it runs faster than any of us can. As for casting blame, that’s norra very Christian attitude, is it? Our mam made us go to church because she believed in it, not because it was the thing to do. And don’t forget the baby. You’ll have to take special care of her now, queen. Be brave, Amy, and help us fellers to help Dad, because Mam would’ve wanted that, too.’

Mary came home, but she was a very different girl from the one who had shared Amy’s bed after Jane Rebecca’s birth. She was wide-eyed and white-faced with shock and misery, as they all were, but after the first few days were over it occurred to Amy that her sister was also rebellious. To be sure, she did whatever work was demanded of her, but never willingly or with good grace. February was a bad time for the fishing, but because of a sudden spell of mild weather catches were not as bad as they might
have been, so there was fish to sell both in the Great Charlotte Street market and from the handcart. Amy understood her sister’s reluctance to start selling fish again, but she saw no reason why Mary should baulk over looking after the baby or cooking the meals.

Fortunately, Mary’s reluctance was not as obvious to the rest of the family as it was to Amy. In front of her father and brothers she managed to put on a good face over whatever tasks were to be done, but Amy could read the signs of her sister’s reluctance in Mary’s tight lips and impatient, jerky movements.

It did not make things easier that Mary refused to tell Amy why she no longer seemed to want to help her family. When questioned, she would only say that she missed her job in Manchester and the friends that she had made there. She also made it plain that she had returned for Mam’s funeral and had remained because it was her duty to do so, but she would be off again just as soon as Bill felt he could manage without her. ‘I’ve been earning good money, regular money, and we can’t afford to lose my wages,’ she told Amy. ‘Servants aren’t hard to find, so if the Cottlestones replace me I may never get another job as good, let alone one where I’m valued and happy. I’m telling you, Amy, I can’t wait to get out of here and back to a place where I’m appreciated.’

‘But you’re appreciated here,’ Amy wailed, thinking how impossible life would be without her sister’s help, even if that help was reluctantly given. ‘I’m sure the folk in Manchester couldn’t need you as much as we do, queen. Why, how could I possibly manage without you? There’s baby Becky, and the fish, and the housework, to say nothing of getting
the washing done, potting the shrimps . . .’ The family had now agreed to call the baby Becky, because Janie was so easily confused with Amy and they were sure Isobel would have agreed.

‘I know what you mean,’ Mary said with a sigh. The two girls were lying in bed and talking in whispers since baby Becky was asleep in her cradle beside the bed. ‘But I’ve got my own way to make, chuck. I’m going to tell Dad he ought to get a woman in to give you a hand. Even with the pair of us, the work’s more than we can manage and it’s winter now, with small catches. In the summer, when the nets are full and Dad brings in tons of shrimps to be potted, we’d simply never manage, not if we worked all day and all night, too. I never realised how much Mam did until she died, but now I
know
it’s too much for a couple of girls.’

‘Ye-es, but Dad doesn’t have that sort of money, does he?’ Amy asked. Mary opened her mouth to reply, beginning to say that her father would have to find the money somehow, when baby Becky, who had been stirring uneasily for some moments, began to scream and that was the end of that particular attempt, Amy thought, to get Mary to admit she was needed at home.

Because of the spell of mild, unseasonable weather, housekeeping became temporarily easier. Nappies hung on the washing line in the morning were brought in dry and fluffy from the gentle breeze before darkness fell and even the sad business of arranging for Isobel’s funeral was conducted beneath blue skies. However, after about ten days the weather reverted to more normal winter conditions of cold and even of snow, though this last rarely laid so close to the sea. But it did mean
very much smaller catches. In a way this was a relief. The girls had their work cut out to cope with the baby and what fish there was. Potting shrimps would have been impossible. Bill, who had always been an understanding and sympathetic father, had changed on losing his wife. He grew taciturn, unable to discuss the problems which beset him, because he had always relied on Isobel to arrange the shore side of the fishing. It speedily became apparent that he knew little of the preparation and potting of shrimps, save that they had to be shelled first and, truth to tell, he knew remarkably little about sales. Isobel had had her regular contacts at the fish market and Amy had realised some time earlier that her mother had different arrangements with almost every customer.

The trouble was that Amy did not know what these arrangements were and, when questioned, neither did Mary. Bill, when appealed to, merely said that it was now the girls’ job to do such deals, which left his daughters in an unenviable position. To overcharge a valued customer or to undercharge one who would boast of it could do their business irreparable harm so, since Mary seemed to prefer staying at home and keeping house to dealing with the fish, Amy decided to cast herself on the mercy of Mrs O’Leary, but first she must sell the good catch of shrimps, which Bill had brought triumphantly home earlier that day.

He had gone out again, but had not taken Albert with him, so Albert had gone down to the shore to fetch driftwood and, while Amy was pulling on her only decent pair of boots, he came in with his arms full of salt-stained wood. ‘I’ll chop that presently,’ he was beginning, when Mary, at the sink, turned round and spoke sharply.

‘You can do that later, Albert,’ she said. ‘Someone’s got to sell the bleedin’ shrimps and it isn’t going to be me. I’ve put all that behind me, I have. Besides, there’s a deal to do in the house, yet. I had a word with Dad earlier this morning, trying to make him see that Amy and me can’t cope alone with the fish, the house and the baby, but it wasn’t any manner of use. I told him he’d have to pay a grown woman to come in and give us a hand, but he just said he couldn’t afford the wage and when I tried to persuade him he got downright nasty. He said he wouldn’t replace our mam with some idle slut from the workhouse – as if I’d suggest such a thing! Anyway, so far as I can see, Dad’s idea of us all pulling together simply means that Amy and myself do all the work. Certainly Dad never lifts a finger in the house and he’s getting far too fond of visiting his pals of an evening . . . if he does visit them, that is. It’s my belief he goes round to the Caradoc and drowns his sorrows, as they say.’

There was a shocked silence, then Amy spoke: ‘But Dad’s Temperance, Mary. He doesn’t take strong drink.’

Mary turned from the sink, shaking her head sorrowfully. ‘No, queen. Mam was Temperance and brought us up to think the same, but it’s my belief that Dad never was. Fishing’s a cruel, hard job, and Dad and the older lads deserve a pint and a bit of company at the end of a day’s work. I don’t
blame
Dad for taking a drink now and then, but he’s got to be made to accept help. Otherwise, I’m telling you, we’ll all be in the workhouse in six months’ time.’ She turned to point an accusing finger at Albert.
‘And you will help sell the shrimps, me laddo, even if it goes against the grain.’

‘What’s wrong wi’ Amy sellin’ the perishin’ shrimps?’ Albert asked sulkily, turning to hold his hands out to the blaze, for it was a cold day with an icy wind blowing. ‘I’ve bin’ on that bleedin’ shrimp boat since before dawn and I’m so cold it’s a wonder me fingers don’t snap off like icicles. Let Amy go, she’s better at sellin’ shrimps than any feller. Gals always is.’

Amy, who knew her chances of escaping the task were small, sighed deeply and went towards the scullery where the sack of shrimps awaited her. ‘All right, all right, only you might come along as well, Albert, because I’m thinking of going to see Mrs O’Leary when I’ve sold the shrimps. Someone’s got to have a word about the stall and prices and so on, and it might as well be me.’

‘In that case Albert can push the handcart and you can carry the baby, Amy,’ Mary said, brightening. ‘I want to give this house a good clean through, get the messages up to date and clean down the wash-house and fish scullery – God knows it could do with it, it hasn’t been done since well before me mam died. Also I want to see if I can hear of a respectable woman who can do with a few hours’ work. You’d best take a bottle for the littl ’un and some carry-out for yourselves. I made scones and a meat-and-potato pie yesterday. You can have them. Now, don’t start carrying on, Amy,’ she added, as Amy began to protest. ‘Baby Becky’s a good little soul, I’ve heard you say so often and often. Why, folk come over to coo at the baby and end up buying shrimps, so you’ll be sold out afore you know it. Now hurry up and leave, do, so I can get on.’