Spilt Milk (9 page)

‘We’ll go to the river,’ she said, reaching for her coat. ‘I’ll do it,’ she told Vivian. ‘I’ll make sure she has a proper burial.’

Vivian stumbled. Ahead of her, Nellie’s hat tipped forwards against the east wind, her back straight, her footfalls as sure as ever. Vivian’s coat was wet and heavy with snow against her legs. She fell and the ground was hard and stony. She remembered Nellie as a child. She had been the fastest runner at school, with or without her hobnail boots. The best crow-scarer among all the children in the village too. Vivian had a memory of her sister. Black crows and jackdaws swooping down onto the flowering bean fields, and Nellie aged eight, undoing her long plaits, shaking her brown hair loose, running up and down the fields, arms outstretched, hollering and yelling, jumping into the air. She’d always been the brave one.

Nellie lifted her, telling her she would be all right, putting her arms under Vivian’s and helping her forwards.

‘Oh, heavens,’ said Vivian, fighting tears. ‘I’m sorry, Nellie. You’re so brave. And here I am falling down. Will Josephine go to heaven? Babies go to heaven, don’t they? I know we are all sinners in the eyes of God, but I cannot think of a baby being born guilty of anything. Me, yes, I’m guilty. Guilty of hurting you. But not Josephine.’

‘Her soul has gone right up with the angels,’ said Nellie. ‘This is just her body and she doesn’t need it any more. You keep going a little longer, Vivian. Just a bit further.’

At the riverbank, Louisa gathered stones to weigh the velvet bundle down. Nellie was bent over, pulling off her boots.

‘You can mourn her here whenever you want. Vivian, you can come down here and she’ll be with the fishes. Swimming in the reeds with them. You hear me? Come the summer, you’ll be able to stand here in the sunshine and look at the water. All the things you see alive in there? Well, Josephine will be right there with them. We’ll come and sit here together. We’ll come here to see her, for the rest of our lives. Until we’re old, and then we’ll join her one day.’

‘You promise?’

‘Of course I do. I promise.’

Vivian nodded. Her sister was always the brave one.

‘If I’d had a doctor—’

‘You did what you could, Vivian. I should never have left you.’

The snow stopped falling. Nellie took the bundle in her arms and walked down into the river. Vivian strained to see into the darkness. Nellie’s white undergarments shone for a moment and then were gone.

Nellie waded into the black waters. She felt the cold pressing her lungs, filling her with confusion. The river wanted to take her for itself. It was surprised, no doubt, by the heat of her body and, wanting it, it sucked the air from her lungs. She was burning in the icy water. The last time she had swum here had been in the summer, with Joe. Back then the river had wrapped itself around her like a lover.

She forced her arms to move and struck out towards the centre of the river. She knew it would have been no good throwing the bundle into the water in the dark. The stones might rip the velvet and the body might float up. The only way to do it was to dive and lay her burden down upon the river bed. And there, the creatures in these waters would take it and keep it. Vivian would be able to mourn her then. Nellie thought of the fish, the monster washed up on their kitchen floor. They’d taken the sorry creature from the river and now here she was giving their own sorrow back to the waters. And this was the only choice. Better than the churchyard, where an illegitimate baby would be judged and unwanted. The water would baptize her and take her to its heart.

There was a papery crust of ice on the surface of the water. It crunched and cracked as she swam through it. By tomorrow morning the river would be frozen. Villagers might skate on it, as they often did in a cold snap. Her limbs went weak. She began to
feel cold and afraid. If she died in these waters, they would not find her until the thaw.

In the middle of the broad sweep of icy water, her courage came back. Nellie owned this river. She knew its currents, its gravel bed. She would not be taken by it now.

She dived and the pain in her skull was terrible. Her teeth froze and her jaw turned brittle. She touched the river bed. She could not go down any further. She dropped her bundle. The baby was safe now. Delivered to its grave. She had done what she set out to do, giving it over to the care of the river. She pushed up to the surface, gasping for breath, the cold slowing her movements. For a moment she was lost. Which way to go? Which bank to swim for? On one side were Vivian and Louisa with her clothes. On the other side were snow and open fields. If she got it wrong, she would die of cold. She kicked and swam off towards what she thought was the right bank. And then she heard something. Vivian calling her name over the wind. She turned, and this time she heard her sister’s voice again. She knew she would make it back. The river would not take her, only the secret she had given to it.

Nellie sat on the window seat in the cottage, watching the lapwings flying over the fields. It was 1917, the country was still at war, and Vivian had been gone for nearly three years. The longer Nellie stared at the birds, the more she doubted those fragile shapes were blood and feather and bone. Against the pale sky they looked like rags; strips of black fabric dancing back and forth. She looked down at her hands resting in her linen skirt. Her sewing box sat beside her, a pile of mending untouched. She was no good at darning in any case. Vivian had always done it. Since she had lived alone, Nellie’s darning and mending had not improved at all.

Of course Vivian had left. Every time it rained she had rushed to the window, watching for any change in the water level of the river. Any sign of it rising made her anxious. She’d been afraid of what flood waters might deliver back to them. Nellie had tried to reassure her. She’d put the brown hagstone in a cotton bag and told Vivian that as long as one of them had the stone then the river would not give up its secret. It would not betray them or the baby.

Nellie got up from the window seat and put on her hat and coat. Outside, the lapwings gathered into a black knot in the sky. They moved away until they were a pencil line, and then a dot, and then gone. She cycled into the village, glad to be in the fresh air. It was a wonderful thing, a bicycle. Louisa had left it to her as a gift when she eloped with the wheelwright.

Should Nellie marry, like Vivian had? Even if she was open to the idea, and she wasn’t sure she was, there was no one left. In one day back in 1914, the village had lost all its men. They’d marched
off to the train station, off to war, chummy and triumphant, their arms around each other’s shoulders, like work gangs swaggering across the barley fields at the start of the harvest.

She thought of Vivian and her married life often. It was still a regret that she had missed the wedding. Nellie had bought Vivian a bale of damask table linen as a present, and the day of the wedding Nellie had left the house with it under her arm, in plenty of time to catch the train. Shoes polished, gloves in hand, she had wandered down to the river. Standing under the willow tree, she tried to work out how her life and Vivian’s had changed so drastically. She’d lost track of the hour, mesmerized by the waters and the fish gliding in the depths. By the time she walked hurriedly the six miles to the station, she’d missed the train, and Vivian, in a county town miles away, was married without her sister there to be glad for her. She had tried to explain several times to Vivian what had happened, but she was sure her sister did not believe her and thought instead her non-appearance had been a way of punishing her for leaving. Perhaps there was a little truth in that too.

At the Parish Rooms up by the church, Nellie stepped into the warmth of the wooden hall. On a trestle table were plates of boiled tongue sandwiches and slices of walnut cake. The vicar’s wife was serving tea from a big metal urn.

‘Ah, Nellie.’ She handed her a cup of tea. ‘We missed you at Red Cross classes. We were bandage rolling. You didn’t call for the laundry either. Have you been ill, my dear? Really, you must say if you can’t manage to take in washing any more.’

Nellie muttered her apologies and accepted a sandwich. She’d not eaten all day.

The vicar was showing newsreels of the war. The film flickered and jumped. Men in uniforms, smiling and dazed-looking, marched in unison across the big white sheet stretched over a wall of Sunday-school Bible pictures. Some of the men had bandages around their heads like turbans. They pointed at themselves
and laughed, giving the thumbs up to the camera. It was hard not to smile back. She watched the long rambling lines of them in heavy uniforms, scanning their faces, looking for Joe Ferier.

‘This is rather old footage,’ announced the vicar, breaking Nellie’s thoughts. She blinked as the gas lights were lit, and glanced at the film tin beside her.

‘September 1916,’ the vicar said. ‘A whole year out of date.’

‘The main thing is to see our boys overseas,’ said his wife. She smacked the hand of a child trying to take a sandwich. ‘We must try to be informed about what is going on.’

‘And how is Vivian? Is her husband still doing warden duty?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘Poor you,’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘You must miss your sister terribly.’

Nellie took another sandwich and nodded. She wondered if Nathan Rumsby had found himself a wife. Perhaps she should go and see if he would still consider her. She had to do something. She couldn’t rely on free sandwiches to feed herself much longer. Farm work was sporadic since Langham had retired and a new tenant had taken on the farm. Recently she’d got a letter in the post saying a rent collector was going to be calling to inspect the cottage. The new tenant couldn’t let her have the cottage rent-free any more.

The vicar’s wife had moved on to another conversation.

‘They are prisoners, let us not forget.’

‘Conscientious objectors …’ the vicar said. ‘What do you think, Nellie? We have prisoners in our village and just one guard with them. I find this a very dangerous situation.’

Nellie swayed away towards the door.

‘It’s a patriotic duty to join up,’ the vicar said. ‘Our young men willingly give themselves to defend the Empire. It is our duty to serve God, King and country. Nellie, do say hello to your sister if you see her.’

She took another sandwich from a tray and left the hall, taking
a path into the trees to see if conscientious objectors were really working in the woods. She found them quickly, a group of long-faced men with dark beards and the martyred look of the misunderstood, dressed in prison garb, thin and gaunt, chopping logs and clearing undergrowth. A guard stood smoking, watching them from a distance.

Not one of the men lifted his head from his work when she strolled past along the sawdust-strewn track. They hid their faces from her, and she wondered if they thought she might be there to offer them white feathers for their cowardice.

There was the sound of arguing behind her, voices raised in anger, and she turned to see a group of soldiers talking to the prisoners. One soldier had his head bandaged. Another walked with a stick. A third had his shoulder and arm bandaged and wore an eye patch. Nellie had to pass them to get back out onto the road.

‘You should be in France, fighting like real men,’ said the soldier with the eye patch. ‘You’re a bunch of cowards. Worse than the bloody enemy.’

The other soldiers were pulling him away.

‘Curb your language, man. Look, there’s a lady present.’

‘Don’t hold back on my account,’ said Nellie. Her hat had slipped sideways and she tried to organize it back into place. ‘But you should think on a bit. These pacifists are scrimshankers and shirkers, but I do believe they might be right. If every man in the country refused to fight, the generals would have to do it themselves. In which case the war would be over by now.’

Nellie hadn’t meant to be so outspoken. She felt cheered by the look of surprise she received, and walked away with a spring in her step, a triumphant smile creasing her face.

As she cycled home past the Parish Rooms, the vicar called out to her. An army chap had come by looking for a cook for a military hospital. The wages would be good. They needed somebody straight away.

‘You could attend an interview today. I think you might know the house. A place not far from here called Hymes Court.’

It was September and the cold weather was already setting in. A season working indoors would be better than harvesting sugar beet. She would go there now. For the first time in many months, Nellie felt good fortune coming her way. A sense that something might happen. That luck might be on her side for once.

Vivian opened her eyes. The eiderdown felt silky against her skin. She could hear Frank snoring in the other bed. Birds sang at the window and there were street noises outside, voices, cars, horses and carts.

She got out of bed and dressed behind a screen, putting on her roll-on corset, a slip and a flowered tea dress in crêpe de Chine. Soft wool stockings and red leather T-bar shoes with a small heel.

In the bathroom down the hall, she washed and checked her appearance in the mirror. She still marvelled at the indoor bathroom with its ceramic bath and a sink with shiny metal taps for hot and cold water. In the mirror her eyes looked calm. Pale grey with a thin blue rim to them. Her hair had recently been salon-waved. She drew a sweep of blonde across her forehead and fixed it with a hair clasp. She did not look like a countrywoman any more, and she was glad.

Vivian tucked a stray curl behind her ear and powdered her nose. It had been a sensible decision to marry Frank. She was fond of him, but she didn’t love him. If she didn’t love him, she was sure he could never break her heart. She applied red lipstick and blotted it with a tissue, just as she had read how to in a magazine. She used a little block of coloured wax and a small brush to paint her eyes. Another magazine article on feminine beauty, written by a man, had said it was off-putting to see women too brightly painted. Vivian read avidly these days, borrowing books from the town library. Books on manners and etiquette,
housekeeping and homemaking.
The Young Woman’s Friend
,
A Wife’s Companion
,
Good Manners for All Occasions
,
How to Care for a Husband.
She was teaching herself to speak correctly too, as if she could cast off every memory of her past life with every ragged country vowel she refused to utter.

She went down the staircase with its faded red Indian runner and stopped on the landing where the guest bedrooms led off a corridor. Four rooms, two either side.

On the landing was a large brass spittoon, something Frank had brought back years ago from India when he’d worked out there as a young man. Vivian had filled the dimpled brass pot with peacock feathers. Nellie would have been horrified to see such unlucky feathers in a house. Vivian stopped to arrange the feathers, glancing out of the window onto the grounds at the back of the house. There was a scrubby rose garden, and a small vegetable patch which had been lawn before the war. Beyond were stables, where Frank’s automobile was parked and a green-painted pony trap gathered dust. An apple tree stood tall over one of the stables. All this was hers.

It was hard to think she had once believed so fervently in a spinster’s life. She had read the other day that a husband was the most important element in a woman’s life. Above children and other family members. Granted, it was another article written by a man – why were so many articles aimed at women written by men? But he’d made a convincing argument. It made a kind of sense to think that married women should treat their husbands as both the masters of the home and eternally needy children. Women were natural carers, after all.

Frank came downstairs. He wore a baggy charcoal suit, and his round-rimmed glasses had smears of fingerprints on them. He was rather elderly, but he had a good head of grey hair and thick white eyebrows that hung over his glasses in a comic fashion. His face was soft and good-humoured. He checked his watch and smiled.

‘Am I late this morning?’

‘No, dear,’ she said, enjoying the sound of the familiarity in her words. ‘I was waiting for you.’

He held out his arm to her and they walked downstairs. On the ground floor was a hallway with a set of doors going off to the right and a small reception desk. A drooping fern in a glazed green pot sat on the desk, along with a brass bell, and a gong was suspended from a dark wooden frame. A carved cuckoo clock on the wall loudly tick-tocked.

At the reception desk, Vivian let go of his arm.

‘Kippers this morning, please, Mrs Stewart,’ said Frank breezily, and disappeared into the dining room. Vivian went into the kitchens and put on an apron.

Frank liked his kippers poached in milk and then set on a plate with a knob of butter and slices of dry toast. The cook, Mrs Dunn, was making breakfast for the guests: two farmers in town for the livestock market. Vivian said good morning.

‘It’s raining,’ said Mrs Dunn. And then, ‘Don’t forget he likes brown toast.’

‘Thank you,’ said Vivian. She knew the cook didn’t like her. Every time she entered the kitchen she felt she was trespassing. Frank had laughed it off when she told him.

‘She doesn’t have to like you,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to like her either.’

Despite the hurt she felt at his short reply, she had been glad he explained things to her. It stated clearly in one of her household management books that a distance must be kept between staff and members of a household. Kindness and distance. She flipped the kippers onto a warmed plate and congratulated Mrs Dunn on the newly washed floor. For a moment she heard Rose’s voice in hers, the sureness of it, the way she always knew how to be correct. Nellie used to say Rose was an ogre, but that was unfair. It must have been hard for Rose raising her sisters alone.

Vivian wrote regularly to Nellie. She still felt guilty for leaving her alone. Poor Nellie. Vivian hoped one day to be able to ask Frank if her sister might come and live with them.

In the dining room, Frank was discussing the war with his friend Bernard Harding. Dr Harding was a balding man in a starched white collar and dark tweed suit. ‘Stewart,’ he called her husband, as if it were his first name. He and Frank had gone to school together. These days, both of them being too old to join up, they did warden duty, guarding the railway yards and urging people to keep their lights dimmed and curtains closed in case of Zeppelin raids. Frank, ever cautious, had asked Vivian to put up black paper on the windows to hide the lights at night.

Dr Harding ran a surgery in the centre of town. He was a man devoted to society and the improvement of it. He’d been mentioned in the local newspaper just the other day for giving a talk to a ladies’ club. He’d lectured a full hall on the importance of eliminating weakness in the offspring of the working classes. Good breeding, he’d been quoted as saying, was vital for the future of the British Empire.