A Nurse's Duty (36 page)

‘Brian Patrick,’ she said firmly.

Patrick had not mentioned ‘The Letter’, as she privately thought of it, and Karen was content to let it lie. He went about the work of the farm with renewed energy, his silent periods, when she had felt shut away from him, becoming fewer and fewer until they had all but disappeared. His face was sunny, he was becoming hardened to the work, and his absorption in his little family dominated his life.

There was still bunting in the streets as Karen came out of the office for it was not long after Armistice Day. There had been great celebrations in their corner of the dale and thanksgiving services in the little Chapel. Yet the war seemed all unreal to Karen, something from another life. This valley in Weardale was remote from the happenings of the outer world.

Walking along to the post office, she posted her letters to Morton Main, one for her parents and one for Kezia.

‘I ought to go and see them,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Make
my
peace.’ But she was reluctant to leave the farm or do anything which might alter the mood of the old place, break the spell as it were. She would wait a while, she decided, and crossed over to the trap with Polly waiting patiently between the shafts.

Anyway, she excused herself, Gran wasn’t too good lately, she always seemed to be tired. Karen often walked into the kitchen to find her dozing in the rocking chair, even in the middle of the day. Gran would jump up and begin doing something busily but Karen was not fooled. It wouldn’t be a good idea to leave her alone at present.

Within only a few weeks, the snow which was already covering the tops began to blanket the moor and high valleys, making travelling foolhardy in any case. They were tucked into their own little world and Karen was content to remain there. Then the first serious argument, appearing insoluble at the time, loomed large in their lives.

Karen began to talk about having Brian baptized in the Chapel.

‘I don’t want him baptized,’ Patrick said, softly enough.

This had never occurred to her. That a child should go unbaptized was a scandal and she opposed it with all the strength of her Non-Conformist background. It certainly wasn’t going to happen to her beloved Brian. He would be baptized, he would.

‘He will be baptized in the Chapel and by our own Minister.’

‘He will not.’ Patrick was equally adamant and uncompromising. Karen gazed at him. Most of the time he was easy-going, falling in with her wishes about everyday things. Now she was finding his will to be as strong as her own. A thought occurred to her.

‘Do you want him baptized in your own church then? Take him down to Wolsingham? But you don’t even go there yourself.’

The words ‘And you a priest’ hung on the tip of her tongue but remained unspoken.

‘No, I don’t want him baptized.’ Patrick’s tone was final. As far as he was concerned the discussion was at an end.

Karen went over to the cradle where Brian had begun to cry loudly at the unexpected sound of voices raised in anger. She picked him up and hugged him, staring at Patrick who was showing a steely will she hadn’t seen before in him. Even if he himself had lost his faith, what did it matter if she had Brian baptized? He whimpered then cried in earnest, stirring restlessly in her tight clasp. She hushed him automatically, her face flushed, still staring at Patrick. He stood silently, staring back at her, his eyes hard.

‘Good God deliver us!’ Gran came in the door from the yard where she had been feeding the hens. ‘What’s the matter with the babby? Give him here to me.’ She took the child, holding him against her shoulder and clucking softly. Sitting down on the rocker before the fire she rocked him gently until his sobs quietened to an occasional hiccup and at last he fell asleep on her shoulder. Gran took no further notice of Patrick or Karen, focusing all her attention on Brian. She had a rare talent for making herself practically invisible when she thought they needed some privacy.

Meanwhile the young couple stood like statues, Karen moving only to give the child up to Gran, until at last Patrick turned wordlessly and stalked out of the door and on up the fell. Only then did the tension leave Karen and she sank down on the settee. Mechanically she adjusted her hair, pinning it back into its bun, and wiped her face with her handkerchief and blew her nose.

Gran watched her over the downy black tuft of Brian’s hair. Best not say anything, she thought with great forbearance, they would sort it out. All couples had their problems at first, but there was no getting away from the fact that these two had got off to a particularly bad start even though this was the first time she had heard them row. So she sat rocking the child and staring into the fire. Eventually Karen stood up and went out to the scullery where
she
could be heard clattering and banging a bucket about against the flagstones as she scrubbed the floor. She was trying to calm herself with hard physical work.

When Patrick came in to supper they spoke calmly enough to each other about the ordinary everyday things of the farm but they were avoiding each other’s eyes.

When the snow abated and it was safe to take the boy to the Chapel, Karen had him christened there by the Minister. It was a quiet ceremony before the Sunday Service and she said nothing to Patrick about it. Brian’s baptismal certificate she hid in her dressing-table drawer.

Slowly the immense attraction they had for one another overcame everything else, drawing them together as closely as before. Their passion was undiminished and the secret delights of the marriage bed through the cold winter nights were yet only part of the deepening love which enveloped them both. The sound of Patrick’s step in the yard brought a lightening to Karen’s heart, a feeling echoed in his eyes when he saw her waiting for him. And Brian throve and Karen thought this was the happiest winter of her life. Sometimes she would look at her baby and words from the New Testament would run through her mind: ‘This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.’ And she couldn’t think it was blasphemy.

Chapter Twenty-Two

‘
HEY, MISSUS, YOU
haven’t got a cup of tea in the pot, have you?’

The woman who had been washing the front windows of the cottage jumped at the sound of the man’s voice. She hadn’t noticed anyone coming up the lane when she’d started the job. The lane led up from the main road into Hexham but not many people turned up it unless they had business at the farm further up.

‘By, you made me jump,’ she said now, looking the man at her garden gate up and down. A poor sight he was an’ all, she thought, thin and scrawny, his hair down to the collar of his scruffy suit jacket and what looked like a week’s growth of stubble on his chin. He stooped over the gate, one hand held behind his back and the other holding on to the gatepost.

Mrs Timms wrung out the wash-leather in her hands as she looked at him, feeling a bit apprehensive. She was on her own in the row of four cottages, the men were at work on the farm and the women had gone into Hexham for it was market day.

‘Come on, missus, just a cup of tea.’

Nick asked again, without much hope. The last few months had taught him that women and even some men felt threatened by such as him and resented his presence if they had men-folk away at the war. For he couldn’t bear for anyone to see his hand had gone. He usually managed to hide the stump so that people thought he was whole.

‘Aye, all right then,’ Mrs Timms said reluctantly. After all, it was her Christian duty. And God knows, she thought, he didn’t look like he could be a threat to her. A puff of wind would blow him over.

‘You can come in and sit on the bench,’ she said, indicating a garden seat under the window.

‘Thanks, missus.’

Nick carefully inserted his stump into his frayed jacket pocket, making sure she didn’t see what he was doing, before opening the gate and walking up the path. This made him look lop-sided and Mrs Timms showed her puzzlement. But she said nothing, merely going into the house and fetching an old enamel mug from the pantry, filling it with tea from the pot standing as usual on the hearth. She added a good dollop of sweetened, condensed milk and stirred it vigorously. As an afterthought she buttered a fresh-baked scone and took that out too. The lad looked like he could do with something in his belly. She smiled as she handed it over to him, feeling pleased at her magnanimity. She felt a bit more pleasantly disposed towards him now she was feeding him, despite the rank stink of him as she came near.

‘Eeh, thanks, missus.’ Nick took the mug of tea and put it down on the bench before taking the scone.

‘Something wrong with your hand?’ she asked.

Nick shoved the stump further down behind the rags he kept in the pocket for bulk. He shook his head vigorously and chewed on the scone. His mouth was dry but he had to get rid of the scone before he could drink.

Mrs Timms looked at him, her lips pursed. Well, if he didn’t want to talk, she certainly didn’t. Anyway, the smell from him was getting stronger. She backed away and carried on washing the windows, rubbing angrily at the panes. Idle good for nothing, why wasn’t he away at the war anyway? she thought. Her good mood had evaporated swiftly and she was sorry now she had let him into the garden. Well, she’d stay out here washing windows till he’d gone and make sure nothing of hers went with him.

Nick finished the tea and put the mug down on the bench.

‘By, that was grand,’ he said fervently and looked up at Mrs Timms hopefully.

‘You haven’t got a tab about the place, have you, missus?’

She exploded. ‘No, I have not got a cigarette,’ she said, her voice rising. ‘What do you think it is?’ She picked up the mug and faced him, quivering with rage.

‘You’ve had your tea, now get off the place or I’ll call my man.’

Nick sighed and got to his feet. This happened so often he was getting used to it.

‘Thanks, missus, anyhow,’ he said and trudged off, down the lane and on to the road to Hexham. Maybe he would get something to do there. The spectre of the workhouse was looming larger as the summer faded and the nights grew colder. What’s more, he had left his greatcoat in the barn of the last farm he’d stayed at.

Nick had returned to the farm where he had worked before the war, the farm which had taken him on as an orphanage lad. He had been there four years before the war. Surely that counted for something? he had thought. He had always been a good worker, he had worked hard all his life. But that had not counted in his favour, not now he was short of an arm.

‘You can sleep in the barn tonight,’ the farmer had said to him. ‘But there’s no work. Why, lad, what good is a one-armed man on a farm? I ask you, man, I’m not running a blooming charity.’

The farmer spoke in a reasonable tone, putting to Nick the unfeasibility of a farm worker with one hand. Besides, the war would be over soon and there would be plenty of men after work – two-handed, able-bodied men.

Nick thought about it without bitterness next morning as he took the Tynedale road out of Hexham. He was feeling stronger this morning, it was a fine September day and his belly was filled. A kindly stall-holder at the market had given him a couple of stale pies and he had saved one for his breakfast. He set out along the
road
swinging both arms, for there was no one to see the stump. He felt behind his ear for the dog-end of cigarette which he had been saving from the night before. He’d found a penny in the street at Hexham and bought a packet of five Woodbines. But he had learned to ration cigarettes out carefully if he was lucky enough to be able to buy any.

As often happened his thoughts returned to Karen as he walked. He hadn’t managed to find her yet, but he was going to give it another try today … surely if he walked the dales long enough somebody would have heard of Sister Knight? The longer he searched unsuccessfully for her, the more his obsession with her deepened. If only he could find her, ran his muddled thoughts, everything would be all right.

A few days before Christmas, Patrick was out bringing in sheep from the low fell to the home pasture. Though the cover of snow was light, the wind was sweeping over the top, stinging his face so that he buried his chin in his muffler and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. It was so cold. He just couldn’t get used to how bitterly cold the weather was in Weardale. They had storms enough in County Clare, God knows, he thought, but this icy cold and frozen snow which came down on the high fell were something different.

He had acquired a young border collie bitch, Flossie, from Fred Bainbridge together with a few tips on how to handle her. He was trying to get into the way of using her and now he watched her, racing on ahead of him. She didn’t seem to mind the cold, she didn’t even seem to feel it. Patrick climbed higher, against the wind, until at last he could turn and get a good overall view of the fell in his search for strays. Flossie had disappeared, he realized, and he scanned the moor for her.

‘Wheeee,’ he whistled, and when this had no effect, called, ‘Flossie! Here, Flossie.’

A movement caught his eye and he turned to look. It was the bitch, she was running towards what looked like a bundle of old clothes. He hadn’t noticed it before, greyish-black it was and huddled against an outcrop of limestone, not all that much different from the outcrops on his father’s farm back home in Ireland.

He stared hard at the bundle. He must have passed it on his way up, he thought, cursing his own lack of observation, something essential on the moor as he should have learned by now. It must have been hidden by the rock, he reckoned. It puzzled him somehow. It did not look at all like one of the little black-faced ewes of the dale. It was too big. After a quick glance round for anything else unusual, he went to investigate.

Huddled close to a sheep which was still alive but caught between two stones was the figure of a lad, very still, slight and pitiful in threadbare and ragged clothes. Flossie was standing over him, wagging her tail and barking excitedly.

‘Quiet, girl,’ he said and she subsided, sitting back on the frozen ground and watching him. As Patrick knelt and turned the boy over to see his face, he gave a start of recognition. It was Nick Harvey. The stump of the boy’s right arm pointed grotesquely into the air and it was blue with cold.