I was interviewed on American radio this week by the wonderful Ron Shaw, AKA The Whale and it was a lot of fun. Enjoy!
http://www.artistfirst2.com/ArtistFirst_Ron_Shaw_2015-11-02.mp3 …
Thursday, November 5, 2015
Friday, July 31, 2015
DEALS (dedicated to all parents stuck at home with children during the school holidays)
DEALS
By C. A. Hocking
Dedicated to
all mothers/fathers/grandparents stuck at home with children in the school
holidays - with love and understanding.
(Note from the author: this was written in 1987 before tablets, devices
and cell phones. The gadgets may have changed, but children haven't. Now my
children have children of their own - and they're making their own deals!)
As a single parent on a low
income with four young children in a small country town, going away for the
school holidays was out of the question. So we took a holiday at home. Goodness
knows we needed it. We were all tired after a year of work, school, chores,
responsibilities and a tight routine that I adhered to strictly in order to
survive.
We talked about what each of us
needed in order to achieve some real time out. It wasn’t hard to come to an
agreement as each of us basically needed the same thing – to sleep in every
morning with no timetables or alarms, eat what we wanted when we wanted, stay
up late to watch the all night movies or play on the computer, have meals on
our laps in front of TV, play or garden outside when the weather was good, read
or watch videos inside when the weather was bad. No normal washing, ironing, cleaning,
tidying up or shopping. Fast food and bad habits for two weeks.
Sounds like bliss and it was!
I relaxed supervision of our usual
rules and regulations, ignored the consequences and we slobbed it for two
weeks. It was easy and it was fun, but, oh dear, the mess at the end of the
fortnight had to be seen to be believed. Two weeks of goofing off, four active
children and a spate of wet, cold weather had combined to create an environment
worthy of any pig.
So Sunday, the day before school
started and I was to go back to work, was, naturally, clean-up day. We had
agreed on this at the beginning of our holiday-at-home. Didn’t seem like a
problem at the time, but now it looked daunting. I made up the normal duties roster
for the coming week, stuck it in its usual place on the fridge door and circled
the children’s duties for Sunday so that they knew exactly what had to be done.
I called them into the kitchen and pointed out what each of them was assigned
to do.
I would tackle the laundry, the
ironing (what a nightmare!), my bedroom and ensuite. I assigned the other rooms
to the children according to age and, in my opinion, ability. Each was
responsible for their own bedroom, including changing the sheets. In addition, Mr.
13 took the kitchen which looked as if it might need a blow torch applied to it;
Miss 11 had the family room which appeared to me to be buried under more STUFF than
I ever thought we possessed; Mr. 8 was assigned the bathroom, toilet, and
passage; and Mr. 5 took the lounge room which I considered to be the easiest,
as we had spent most of the time in the family room and hardly used the lounge
room.
There was an immediate uproar.
“It isn’t fair! He/she has got it
easier than me/us!” And so the day began.
13 and 11 started to argue about where
the kitchen ended and the family room began. After a few minutes of this, they
agreed to do the kitchen and family room together as they figured it would be
quicker that way. 8 whinged about having to clean behind the toilet. After all,
it wasn’t he who “missed” all the time and glared at his younger brother. 5
immediately objected – he wasn’t the only one who “missed”! Everyone “missed”! Female
11 put him right very quickly on that one. An argument ensued in the middle of
the passage and didn’t stop until I intervened. Finally, a deal was made. 5
would clean behind the toilet and do the passage if 8 would do the lounge room.
Loud noises from the other end of
the house. What now? 13 and 11 simply could not tolerate working together. OK,
fine, so work separately. Then who does what? The family room looks easier than
the kitchen, so based on age alone, I give the kitchen back to 13 and the
family room to 11. Much wailing and gesticulating. Not fair! 13 says 11 is
taller than him, so she should get the hardest room. 11 says 13 is older than
her, so he should get it. They can’t agree. I say, “You aren’t expected to
agree, just to do it. You made the mess, you clean it up.” They’ve heard that
before.
Compromise. 13 says he’ll do the
kitchen if 11 sweeps and mops it when she is sweeping and mopping the family
room. I say, “If you spent the energy on cleaning up that you spent on arguing,
you’d have it done by now.” They’ve heard that before, too.
8 ventures into the fray (on his
way to the kitchen for more cleaning equipment, he assures me) and mentions,
just in passing, that his friend at school NEVER has to clean up at HIS house.
His mother does it all for him. I say, “More fool her,” and remind them all
that mother is NOT spelled S-L-A-V-E! They’ve definitely heard that before!
I finish my bedroom and ensuite
and hang out the fourth load of washing. The line is full and there are at
least six more loads to do. I set the tumble dryer going.
Time to check the children’s
progress. The house is too quiet for anything of real value to be going on,
housework-wise, that is.
13 is sitting on the kitchen
bench, swinging his legs, drinking cordial and reading next week’s TV guide.
The dishwasher is half packed, but nothing else has been done.
11 is reclining on the family
room floor, playing with the puppy who should be outside. The broom lies idle
next to her.
8 is diligently cleaning the
bathroom wall tiles with a toothbrush and toothpaste. That should keep him busy
until the year 2050.
5 is – where is 5? A quick search
finds him asleep on a pile of cushions behind the lounge sofa.
I explode. Everybody jumps and, for
a few moments, I am hopeful.
“We’re hungry, Mum. Can we have
lunch now?”
I’m hungry too. “Sure, as long as
you all promise to get stuck into your chores as soon as you have finished
eating.”
“OK, Mum, it’s a deal.”
Vegemite sandwiches and cordial
at the table, humble fare, but the children treat it like a six course meal. An
hour and a half later, we are ready to begin again. New deals have been struck
during the lunch break. The children say they have it all worked out, but do
they? Let’s see, just what do we have here?
13 will tidy the table; 11 will
clean and polish it; 13 will clear the kitchen benches; 8 will scrub and polish
them; 11 will finish packing the dishwasher; 5 will press the start button; 8
will wash the pots; 5 will wipe them; 13 will put them away; 11 will sweep the
floors; 8 will mop them; 5 will vacuum the passage; 8 will vacuum the lounge
room; 13 will wash the finger marks off the doors; 11 will wash the upper half
of the walls, 8 the lower half, 5 the skirting boards; 13 and 5 will do the
bathroom together; 11 and 8 will do the toilet; 11 will straighten the
bookshelves; 8 will move the family room furniture back into place; 13 will do
the same with the lounge furniture; and 5 will straighten the toothbrushes.
I smile at my clever little
darlings and say encouragingly, “Sounds terrific.” I’m interested to see how
far they all get before good intentions give way to petty bickering, for I’m
just a little sceptical. I’m half way through the ironing when the first fight
breaks out. It sounds like 8 and 5, but before I can set the iron down, 13 is
in there, mediating. I hear him say, “Sshhh, quiet, don’t upset Mum,” and all
is well again. There is peace in the house. Well, a sort of peace.
13 has his portable CD player set
up at one end of the house. 11 has her portable CD player set up at the other
end. Both going full blast. 8 has the radio going, also at full blast,
somewhere in between. They don’t seem to notice the competition of sounds and
beats. As for me, I don’t mind in the least. I am ironing in my neat and
orderly bedroom listening to my favourite opera through the headphones attached
to my own portable CD player.
At last, the opera and the
ironing are finished. My back is killing me. Time for a coffee. Better check on
the tribe first.
Mmm, bathroom and toilet look
good, passage and lounge are lovely and the family room is spotless. The
kitchen is – well, it’s a definite improvement. I can see that they have done
their very best and I am proud of them. I’ll put the finishing touches to it
after they are in bed tonight.
They are still scrubbing walls.
So what if they have left a few water marks running down the walls, they are so
pleased with themselves that I cannot bear to criticise. I make afternoon tea
for us all and we sit down with great relief. We are all tired and it seems too
much effort to begin again. But we must. The children haven’t done their
bedrooms yet and the thought of cooking dinner is as intolerable to me as
cleaning their bedrooms is to them. So more deals are made.
11 will do 5’s and 8’s bedroom; 5
and 8 will do 11’s bedroom; I will do 13’s bedroom; and 13 (bless him) will
cook dinner. Oh no! That will mean messing up the kitchen again. The thought is
too much for any of us. So 13 will ride his bike up the street and pick up fish
and chips for dinner. Sounds good to me. We shake hands on it.
An hour later, we all sit in
front of TV, picnic fashion on a tablecloth spread on the floor so that we
don’t mess up the freshly polished table, and enjoy our last holiday video with
fish and chips. We’ve had a wonderful rest, and thanks to my clever children’s
clever deals, the house is clean and tidy and the washing and ironing up to
date. I kiss them all good night and tuck them into their freshly made beds,
ready for a couple of hours to myself with a cup of tea and the Sunday night
movie.
There is a knock at the door and
my neighbour pops in to join me for the cup of tea. She has also been home with
her two children for the school holidays and is most admiring of how clean and
organised the house looks. While I make her a second cup of tea, she uses the
toilet at the children’s end of the house. She returns with a strange smile on
her face. “Have you checked the toilet?” she asks.
“Yes, it looked spotless to me.
Why?”
“Did you look up?”
“Up? What do you mean?”
“Go see,” she says with a
chuckle.
I go see. Miss 11 and Mr. 8 had
done an excellent job of cleaning and disinfecting. I look up and gasp. They
had taken Miss 11’s box of tampons
from the cupboard under the toilet vanity, dipped the tampons in the toilet
water until they swelled, then flung them upwards so that they stuck to the
ceiling. It must have happened reasonably early in the day because they were
already drying, their strings hanging down limply in a decorative fringe. All
twenty of them.
My little dears had gone through
the whole day without giving it away. They must have been waiting for me to
notice. Did they think they’d get into trouble? In the normal course of events,
they probably would have. But we’d just had two wonderfully relaxing weeks
together, they’d worked hard all day to make our home liveable again, and I
wasn’t about to do anything to spoil that. So what are a few tampons on the
ceiling? Nothing more than an aberrant moment’s fun in an otherwise exhausting
day.
I am too tired to laugh. Instead,
I just sigh and make a deal with myself that that’s a job that can wait until
tomorrow.
Friday, July 24, 2015
SARAH ANN ELLIOTT makes her entrance!
1823 - DEATH AND BIRTH
The
keening began on the first day of the wake for young Nan Elliott. By sunrise of
that May morning, her body had been laid out and dressed, then tenderly
arranged on the worn timber table, her fair hair brushed and the new wedding
shoes placed on her feet. Her parents, Nancy and John, fussed over her for a
few moments, placing her hands across her chest, arranging the skirt of her
blue silk wedding dress in folds over her wasted legs and gently lifting her
head to slip on the blue and white silk bonnet to cover the bare patches of
scalp where Nan’s hair had fallen out. They stepped back and looked at their
daughter with exhausted tears sliding down their worn faces. She had been so
beautiful, but despite the best efforts of the women who had so lovingly laid
her out, there was no hiding the fact that Nan’s had been a hard death.
**********************
The
winter of 1822/23 had been a particularly harsh one in northern England. For
Stockport families who were still feeling the devastating effects of the 1817
Blanketeers March and the 1819 Peterloo Massacre, the weeks of bitter cold,
endless rain and fierce winds seemed too much to bear. Then the Great Snow
Storm of the eighth of February 1823 had left their town under so much snow
that roofs caved in, windows cracked, walls groaned, and men, women and
children with small shovels and bare hands were forced to tunnel their way out
of their own houses and along the streets buried deep under snow to reach the
mills. For they must work, even when it meant risking their lives to get to
their stations at the looms, the printing tables and the dye pits. No work
meant no wages. No wages meant no food and no wood or coal for the fires. No
fires meant a soul could freeze to death inside their own home. And too many
ended their lives that way during that terrible blizzard.
The
wind driving the snow had cut into the mill workers as they made their way to
work in the freezing dark on the morning of that eighth day of February. The
snow was already up to the knees of a grown man, but they’d seen many a snow
storm before and this one began as they all did, with freezing winds, black
clouds and snow whirling about them as they left their homes. As the day
progressed, the wind became a screeching howl that could be heard above the din
of the mill machinery. The mill workers went about their business, but there
was no going home for the morning or midday break. Without exception, all chose
to stay inside their workplaces, making do with the bread, cheese and pies they
carried in their smock pockets.
They
expected the storm to have passed by the time their twelve hour shifts were
done, but it was not to be. They were forced to battle their way home in the
dark through much deeper snow which came up to the chest of the tallest men,
their bare hands creating a deep trench through the snow as they did so.
Children were hoisted onto to shoulders and many joined hands together to hold
themselves steady against the onslaught. The snow drove horizontally into their
bare faces like stinging needles and the wind caught at their breath so that
they must bend into it to keep moving foreward.
John
Elliott shepherded his family through the deep drifts, feeling the shock of the
freezing cold as he came out of the warm mill. He pulled his flat cap down over
his forehead, buttoned his jacket and wound the thick wool scarf tighter around
his neck, then ensured that his children were equally prepared before stepping
outside. He’d not brought a lamp with him as the light from all the unshuttered
windows was usually enough to navigate their way in the dark, but many others
had thought to bring lamps and he followed their specks of lights along the
darkened streets, squinting his eyes against the fierceness of the gale. No
light pierced the windows of the cottages and houses around him on this night
as curtains had been drawn and shutters latched against the gale force winds
early in the day.
It
was normally only a short walk between the old mill built along the banks of
the River Mersey on Mill Street, through the Market Place, up Little Underbank
to his cottage on Lower Hillgate, but tonight it seemed endless. Eighteen year
old Nan and fourteen year old Ellen pulled their shawls tighter around their
heads and shoulders as they closely followed their Da. Their calico mob caps
which protected their hair from the cotton dust of the mill provided scant
warmth under their shawls. Twelve year old Joseph and seven year old Johnny
copied their father by pulling their caps down and buttoning their jackets, but
it was no protection from the elements. When young Johnny slipped on the icy
footpath, his vigilant father scooped him up and held him tight to his chest.
Joseph grasped the back of his father’s coat and concentrated hard on keeping
up and not losing his footing. The girls stayed in their father’s wake,
reassured by his confident strides through the darkness. John glanced back
frequently to ensure they were close by.
One
by one, doorways opened around them as snow was pushed aside and workers
disappeared behind hastily closed doors. On this night John was grateful that
they lived on Lower Hillgate and not further up the side of the valley on the
steep road south that became Middle Hillgate and Higher Hillgate, for those
mill workers must battle the incline as well as the wind and snow. He knew some
of them would stumble through their doors completely spent simply from the
effort of getting home. And not all of them had warm fires and loving families
waiting for them. He had much to be grateful for.
Finally,
they reached their own cottage. John pushed the door open and Nancy was waiting
for them with relief visible on her face. She proffered flannel cloths to dry
off and hot sweet tea to warm them. The atmosphere in their small cottage was
reassuring and welcoming. The fire in the deep inglenook fireplace was roaring,
bread straight out of the bread oven was cooling on the oak mantle above the
fireplace, the table was set with the white tablecloth for their evening meal,
two year old Samuel was playing happily in the wooden play pen next to the
table and Dahdo Joe, too frail now to work alongside John in the mill, was
there to help them off with their wet clogs, socks and stockings. Once the
children were inside, John pushed the door shut gratefully behind him, drew the
heavy curtain across the doorway to exclude the draft that seeped in under the
door, and tended to his family. He prayed that the storm would blow itself out
before the morning for the trip to the mill must be made again before sunrise.
While
Nan and Ellen slipped off their bodices, wet skirts and stockings, sponged off
the grime from the hems and hung them over the long bench seats next to the
fire to dry with the boys’ socks and jackets, Joseph and Johnny cleaned and
polished everyone’s wooden-soled clogs, rubbed the leather uppers with linseed
oil and arranged them neatly on the hearth. A few minutes was spent turning and
turning again before the fire to dry off damp undergarments and trouser
bottoms, the old slate floor warm under their bare feet. Sufficiently dried out
and their evening chores done, they washed their hands in the basin on the
sideboard, let their mother check that they were clean and respectable, and
pulled up their chairs at the table, the girls in their woollen spencers and
heavy winter flannel petticoats, the boys swinging their bare feet under the
table. Nancy put the still-warm bread and the pan of stew in the centre of the
table and the evening meal commenced.
All
was well.
Nan
started coughing while they ate their bacon stew. Nancy moved her closer to the
fire, but the cough persisted. She’d had an irritable cough for weeks now, but
so many of the mill workers had the same cough brought on by the ever present
cotton dust inside the mills and aggravated by the cold winter. For many it
cleared up when the winter was over, but for some it stayed and became the
brown lung, a fearful condition that took many lives too soon, or the bleeding
lungs of consumption which needed no cotton dust to aggravate it. Nancy watched
over her daughter with great care. The cough tonight was dry and for that,
Nancy was grateful. It was the wet cough and the shortness of breath that was
feared so much.
Despite
her cough and the fatigue that was common to all of them after a day at the
mill, Nan was full of chatter about her forthcoming wedding to her fiancé,
Billy Harrop who lived at the top end of their street at Upper Hillgate. The
banns had been read and the date set for the second week of June. Nancy had
bought a length of pretty pale blue silk and dark blue ribbon to trim it and
had already cut out the wedding dress.
Tomorrow she would begin stitching it. It would be in the latest style
that Nan liked so much: low in the neckline, caught into gathers under the bust
and falling softly to the ground with little puff sleeves. The corset maker
would have the short stay that lifted the bust ready in a week. Then there was
the bonnet to make and the leftover silk to be taken to the shoemaker for the
wedding slippers. Nancy knew her daughter and young Billy had a life without
luxuries ahead of them and she wanted the pretty girl to have something lovely,
just once in her life. Although Nan normally paid for her own clothes out of
her own wages, Nancy would carry the expense of the wedding. She’d worked hard
at her dressmaking and saved scrupulously to ensure there were coins to spare
for just such an occasion. It was to be the first wedding in the family and
they were all excited by the prospect.
Nancy
Elliott was renowned in the old part of town for her fine stitching and it was
her dressmaking money that afforded her the privilege of staying at home with
her children before they began their working life in the mill when they turned
six. Not all mothers were so fortunate as to have a skill like Nancy’s. Many of
them went back to work a month after their babies were born, leaving their
infants in the care of a children’s nurse, usually a neighbour too old or frail
to work in the mills. Such a woman, Old Nellie, lived next door to the
Elliotts. The babies were kept clean and safe, and were taken to the mill in an
old handcart three times during the day to be fed by their mothers until they
were weaned after their first birthdays. Then they were fed porridge and milk
by the nurse until the day’s work was done and the anxious mothers returned
home. Although it was well known that Old Nellie was a kindly soul who took her
responsibilities seriously, there were days when Nancy heard those babies
crying and she knew it was their mothers they cried for. Nancy knew she was
blessed, more so than most.
As
the meal progressed, Nan stopped chattering and coughed less often, but she
looked more tired than usual. Nancy felt an unease when she looked at her
daughter’s pale face. She needed sunshine and warm clean air, but both were a
long way off yet in this bitter winter.
After
the plates and cups had been cleared and washed, Nancy lit the night candle,
lifted a tired and grisly Samuel out of the play pen and went upstairs with the
children to prepare for bed. The upper room had a double casement window at the
front which overlooked the street and another smaller window at the back which
faced the steep hill that rose up behind their cottage. That slope had once
been a field with grazing sheep, wild berries and fruit trees, and Mam had
grown turnips, potatoes and onions there to begin with, but a narrow road
called Hight Street which came off Lower Hillgate had been built to climb the
slope and now houses crawled up the side of the hill. A mill was being built
near the crest and the Elliotts had heard that a tunnel was being dug to
channel water from the river to the mill. Nancy thought this to be a remarkable
feat, one of many such marvels in Stockport.
Despite
the houses looming over their cottage, a tiny plot of land remained at the base
of the hill which gave them just enough room for a deep cesspit for their
refuse. Because of the cesspit’s smell, the narrow downstairs back door next to
the sideboard was kept closed. It was well known that miasma, the bad smell
that came from privies and cesspits, caused disease, so Da dug a new hole and
filled in the old cesspit every summer and for a few brief weeks, the back door
and back bedroom window could remain open. The rest of the year they remained
shut, except to briefly open the door and throw out the kitchen scraps and the
contents of the chamber pots.
The
small upstairs sleeping room was crammed with furniture. Nancy and John’s bed
was pushed up against the front wall with a blanket box at the foot of the bed
and a chest of drawers with mirror, wash basin, jug and brushes upon it next to
that. A small cot sat by the head of the bed. The boys’ narrow bed was against
the back wall with the girls’ bed between, leaving just enough space for a
couple of people to stand between beds at any given time. Shelving above the
beds held clothing and personal items, and hooks by the door allowed the
jackets and dresses to be hung to keep them from creasing. Other possessions
were kept in boxes under the beds. As small as it was, the room was a testament
to Nancy’s good organisational skills.
The
wide chimney breast took up valuable space in the room, but it gave out a
gentle warmth which was much welcomed during the winter months, although on
this night there was definitely an extra chill to the air. The girls considered
themselves fortunate to be closest to the chimney breast and away from the
windows in winter, although in summer it made the room stuffy. The boys
sometimes whinged that the small back window leaked cold air, but John told
them that a room must have some air and boys should not complain of such
things. He and Nancy also felt a draft from the window above their bed, but
they just pulled their blankets up higher and so should the boys.
Nancy
changed Samuel’s nappy and tucked him into the cot while Nan and Ellen brushed
and braided each other’s hair. She then supervised them all with crisp
instructions, fussing over the flannel nightdresses and nightshirts worn over
their winter underclothes, pulling their woollen nightcaps down over their ears
and their thick knitted bed socks up to their knees. Each in turn used the
chamber pot under the girls’ bed and cleaned themselves with the old rags kept
in a basin nearby. Their mother chided the boys for missing as usual and made
them mop up the dribbles on the floor boards, all the while noting that their
aim was getting better, for they’d missed the rag rug between the bed tonight.
Nancy would normally carry the chamber pot downstairs and empty it out the back
before retiring, but tonight the chamber pot was pushed back under the bed. If
there was too much snow to open the back door in the morning, it could be
emptied out the back window. She put the basin of soiled rags by the door to
take downstairs to rinse out later.
Then
the children sat on the edge of their beds, bowed their heads, said their
prayers and gratefully snuggled down, top to tail, under the layers of flannel
sheets and woollen blankets. Samuel watched on with sleepy eyes. Feeling the
chill of the air on her cheek, Nancy pulled extra blankets from the blanket box
at the end of her bed and added them to her children’s bedding. As she walked
out with the candle in her hand, she saw young Nan reach over in the fading
light and pat little Samuel gently to get him off to sleep. She knew they would
be asleep within minutes.
As Nancy put her foot on the top step,
she heard an unfamiliar cracking sound above her and looked up. The heavy
rafters and thick thatch had withstood many storms and several feet of snow
before, but she wondered just how much it could take. Many times she’d been
grateful for the hill behind them for it often provided protection from the
prevailing south-westerly winds. But the blizzard seemed to be coming from the
north now, screaming its way unchecked along Lower Hillgate. The storm this
night was like nothing she could remember before.
Downstairs,
John and Dahdo Joe took up their places on the cushioned bench seats either
side of the fireplace, their mugs of ale and pipes giving them the evening
comfort that preceded a good night’s sleep. Joe’s bench seat would become his
bed in another hour, with the pillow and blankets stored under the seat taken
up to cover him. It was the warmest place in the cottage and he never
complained about the narrowness of the bench. He wasn’t a big man and, coming
as he did from the deprivations of a particularly brutal childhood, he always
said he didn’t need much in this life to bring him contentment. A good fire, a
full belly and a clean bed were more than enough. Nancy often felt especially
blessed with her gentle father. And doubly blessed with the good man who was
her husband.
Nancy
took up her mending and sat closest to the fire where the light was best. And
the warmth. She felt the cold more than the men folk, despite her heavy flannel
petticoat and woollen stockings. There was an ache to her hands tonight as she
stitched, but she thought it not worth mentioning when she looked over at her
father’s hands, twisted and deformed with the rheumatism, and his bad knees and
thin legs barely able to hold his skinny body upright. She knew her Da to be in
terrible pain some days and there’d been occasions when laudanum had been
needed to comfort him, but mostly he passed little comment about it. The
example was set for her and she considered it an admirable one.
Usually,
there was talk around the fireplace about the mills or the latest workers’
protest meeting and who might be speaking at the next one, or about the
children. Sometimes, there was gossip to be shared and other nights, especially
during the warmer months, John might produce his fiddle and Nancy and Joe would
join him in a song from the old country. But there was little idle chat this
night with the howling gale outside.
It
wasn’t much later, though, when John suddenly looked up and said, “The wind’s
down.”
Nancy
listened. It was indeed quieter, but in the relative silence they heard other
noises, unfamiliar noises, as if the cottage was straining hard against
something. A strange creaking sound was heard near the front door. She looked
at her husband and father uncertainly, then rose and went to the window. She’d
shut the old diamond paned window against the cold days ago, but that morning,
as the wind had picked up, she’d also pulled the heavy timber shutters across
and locked the strong iron latch in place to secure them. Now she pulled the
curtain aside, raised the latch on the shutter, pulled it towards her and
gasped. John and Dahdo Joe were by her side in an instant.
Compacted
snow pressed against the glass window right up to the top, dirty white even in
the orange glow of the fire. The entire double casement window, made up of
small diamond shaped panes of glass, was bowed inward. As they looked, a sound
like a pistol shot was heard as some of the glass shattered and flew apart
around them. John hastily reached over her shoulder and pushed the timber
shutter closed again, dropping the latch to secure it. He pulled Nancy and Joe
away, quickly checking to see they’d come to no harm and dropped the curtain
back in place. As he did so, they heard another loud cracking sound from
upstairs, this time much deeper and louder. Alarmed, the three adults hurried
up the steep, narrow stairs with a candle.
All
looked well at first. The children were still soundly asleep. Then Nancy felt a
draft across her face and looked up. “Mother of God preserve us!” One of the
heavy oak rafters had cracked and was sagging under the visibly sinking thatch.
John
cried urgently, “Get the children downstairs!” He flung the blankets off the
sleeping boys. “Johnny, Joseph, wake up!”
Dahdo
Joe reached forward, lifted the smaller boy into his arms and started moving
toward the door on his rickety old legs. Joseph awoke as his father pulled him
from the bed. “Downstairs, boy! Make haste!”
Nancy
roused the girls quickly, lifting Samuel out of the cot and handing him to Nan.
“Quickly, Nan. Take care down the stairs!” Confused and still not quite awake,
they children stumbled their way down the stairs, then waited at the bottom,
looking up to see what would happen next.
Once
the children were safely downstairs, the three adults began frantically
gathering up the bedding, the three straw filled mattresses, their clothing and
what possessions they could carry and took them downstairs. The rope beds,
blanket box and chest of drawers would have to stay where they were, but John
was able to get the cot downstairs without effort. The roof continued to crack
and groan. After several anxious trips up and down the darkened staircase with
ears peeled and eyes cast upward, John finally secured the thumb latch on the
little used door at the base of the stairs. If the roof did cave in, they’d
need as much between them and the upstairs as possible. The stairwell door was
lighter than the heavy oak front door, but solid enough to provide another
layer of protection.
Breathless
from the exertion, Nancy, John and Joe comforted the frightened children. Nan,
still cradling Samuel in her arms, asked tremulously, “Will it come down atop
us, Da?”
John
reassured her, although he was not entirely convinced by his own words. “Come
down it may, dear, but not upon us.” He pointed up at the low beams above their
heads. “Twould take the weight of all that God be sending us this night, never
you fear.” He hoped what he said was true, for it would be the upper floor
trusses that had to hold. The two hundred year old old floor was solid oak with
heavy low beams carrying the weight of the upper storey on the two-foot thick
stone walls of the cottage. It was built like a cave in a mountainside. Surely
it would hold. It must hold!
Nancy
began bustling around, busying herself with arranging the bedding and
belongings in the small downstairs room and issuing instructions in her usual
manner which were obeyed without question by all. The table was moved against
the wall and John and Dahdo Joe moved the benches apart to make room for the
mattresses on the floor. Nancy made them up with the bedding and pillows and
the younger children quickly huddled under the blankets. Nan was more aware of
the danger and could not settle, so she sat up with her parents, Samuel cradled
in her arms, her face fearful as the house cracked and moaned around them. She
began to cough a little. Her grandfather put a shawl around her and Samuel and
held them close. “Be calm, child, all will be well. We’re in the Holy Mother’s
hands now.” He patted his shoulder. “You be laying your head on my shoulder and
closing your pretty eyes. And say your sleeping prayers for our good fortune.
Our Lady will be hearing you, even through the storm.” Nan nodded wordlessly
and laid her head against him. Samuel slept peacefully in her arms.
Nancy
watched as exhaustion overcame anxiety and the younger children slipped back
into sleep. She took her rosary beads from her pocket and fingered them without
praying. She could not concentrate enough to pray with the noises of the
imperilled cottage all around her, but just the feel of the worn wooden beads
gave her comfort. They had been her grandmother’s grandmother’s and been held just
so on many an anxious occasion.
Nancy
saw John scanning the thick ceiling beams that ran the length of the room and
whispered. “Will it hold if the roof comes down?”
He
whispered back, “I’ll not be knowing that, Nancy. I’ve no way of knowing how
much snow is atop us.”
Dahdo
Joe said quietly, “There may be a sight of it on the other side the street.
From the upstairs window?”
“Indeed,
Dahdo, there may be, but it be perilous up there.”
“I’ll
be going up to look, John, for I need to be knowing myself.”
John
looked thoughtfully at his father-in-law a moment, then said, “I need to be
knowing, too.” He rose to go back up the stairs. Nancy held him by the arm.
“Tis
not safe, John!”
“I’ll
be taking care, Nancy dear. I’ll be back down those stairs quick as lightning
if I’m afeared.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and went up. Joe
followed him slowly. They looked around the room. No further damage could be
seen, although the terrible noises continued unabated. He moved quickly and
took the candle to the front bedroom window, Joe next to him, lifted the latch
and pushed the window out. In an instant, the candle went out and they were
plunged into blackness.
Outside
was equally as black. The wind was howling up the street, but for some reason
not coming in through the window as John expected. In fact, he felt almost
sucked towards the window as if it had become a chimney, drawing him out like
smoke from a fireplace. He was mystified. John put his hand out to feel the
wind and was clear of the eave above the window before he felt the force of the
gale and the icy snowflakes cut into his skin. He withdrew his hand quickly and
leaned out as far as he could without getting his face into the wind. After a
moment, his eyes adjusted to the blackness and he could make out the shadow and
shape of things. It was a sight that filled his heart with dread.
The
snow came right up to the first floor of the cottages and houses lining the
entire length of Lower Hillgate. It was as if the street had disappeared. It
took another moment to get his bearings, then as the wind gusted he saw
glimpses of glowing chimney tops. His eyes adjusted a little more and suddenly,
through a gap in the driven snow, he saw a glimpse of a candle in the window of
the cottage directly opposite him. The McNamaras were doing the same thing he
was. And in that glimpse, John saw the outline of the McNamara’s roof, a
slightly lighter shade of blackness than the sky behind it. The roof was buried
under so much snow that it looked like another storey had been added to it. It
was far worse than he could have imagined, for he knew the roof above his head
carried equally as much snow. And the houses on the hill behind his cottage as
much again. If that came down, his cottage would be buried under an avalanche.
John
closed the window quickly, wordlessly turned his father-in-law toward the
stairs and they felt their way in the dark to the top step where they could
navigate down by the glow from the fire. He closed the door at the bottom,
dropping the latch quietly. He did not want to alarm his family any more than
they were already, but there would be little sleep that night.
He
instructed his wife, “Keep the fire high,” and went to check on the latched
front and back doors, now knowing the snow to be packed high behind both. They
were solid enough. The wooden window shutters were solid, too, and the stone
walls over two feet thick. As long as the first floor trusses held, they should
survive if the thatched roof came down. What might happen if the snow broke
free from the roofs of the houses behind the cottage was another matter. He
would not bring that to his wife’s attention, for there was enough to worry her
already.
Nancy
said anxiously, “Is it bad?”
“It
is, Nancy, there’s no denying it. But there’s nought we can do.”
“And
your Da and Jim’s family?” John’s father, Jimmy Elliott and his brother, Jim
lived on the same road further up the valley on Upper Hillgate, working at
another of the mills, but he knew their plight was no different from theirs.
Their cottage was old, thatched and sturdy, too, unlike the newer houses being
built to the west of Hillgate. And he knew his father and brother to be capable
men. They would be doing much the same as he was tonight.
“They
must fare as well as they can, just as we must. Upper Hillgate will be much the
same as here. There’ll be none spared this storm tonight, rich and poor alike.”
Nancy
shivered. “There be a mighty draft coming in under that stair door.” She rose
to gather up some cloths to block it off.
Dahdo
Joe said, “Leave it, girl. Tis all the air we’ll be getting til this be over.
You’ll be suffocating us if you block that off.”
Nancy
pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Her father was right. She’d
heard of whole families found suffocated in closed up cottages after severe
storms, their fireplaces using up the air, the people inside drifting into
unconsciousness without realising the danger. A little cold air was a small
price to pay.
She
stepped over the children to put more wood on the fire and wondered briefly, as
had her husband, how the people in the new part of town were faring. The houses
there were poorly constructed with thin brick walls that you could hear the
neighbours through, flimsy looking slate tiled roofs and those small coal
fireplaces that she disliked so much. She didn’t believe they gave out the same
heat that the deep wood burning inglenook fireplaces did. And coal fires
smelled wrong to her. She liked the smell and colour of wood smoke. Only
stinking black smoke came from the coal burning fires, like the smoke from
mills. But there was little choice for the workers who manned the mills and who
seemed to be pouring into the town in ever increasing numbers. The mill owners,
interested only in profits, built cheap houses for their workers with little
regard for the comfort and needs of those living in them.
The
streets of new terrace houses were appearing at a staggering rate. On a crisp,
sunny day at the end of last autumn, Nancy had walked up the side of the valley,
through the fields along Lord Lane to the west of Hillgate, right up to Weaver’s
Row to visit an elderly woman she knew who came from Enniskillen in County
Fermanagh, her birthplace in Ireland. Then she’d strolled back towards Upper
Hillgate to visit her sister-in-law, Betty Elliott on her way home. She’d been
amazed at the many streets and houses which had not been there six months
earlier. There was a whole new town being built there. She knew Nan and Billy
were planning on finding lodgings there after they were wed.
All
the young people wanted to be in the new part of Stockport and she wondered
what the appeal was. But then, when she and John were young they had not wanted
the old ways, either. They had wanted a new way of living, a better way which
is why they’d left Ireland and come to England. When they’d found the cottage
on Lower Hillgate, they felt they’d already come up in the world, for it was
larger than the tiny low roofed cottage they’d shared with the other Elliotts
in Enniskillen, and back then they’d still had the hillside behind them to grow
vegetables and keep poultry before High Street had been built and the hillside
covered in houses and factories. She supposed that Nan and Billy felt the same
way about moving to one of the modern terrace houses in the new town.
Before
she’d left Weaver’s Row that day, Nancy had looked west to where the New Road
was being constructed. She could hear the sounds of the workers from where she
stood and, from this high up, could see the road running north-south to connect
Manchester to the London road. The road would span the Mersey River west of the
old Lancashire Bridge and would be higher and wider than the old bridge,
crossing over old Chestergate road on tall brick arches. A marvel to behold
indeed. John had come home from the public house a few weeks earlier to tell
her that the road would be called Wellington Road and the bridge Wellington
Bridge, even though they were referred to as New Road and New Bridge for now.
Grand name for grand constructions. They were to bypass old Stockport
completely. There was talk of fine buildings to be constructed along the road
in the next few years.
From
where she stood, the road looked level and straight as an arrow, a departure
from the steep, narrow, winding roads of the old town. She was impressed.
Across
the New Road was the beginning of an enormous construction on Spring Bank,
another mill which John had told her would reach six stories and provide
employment for hundreds of spinners and weavers in the new town. The old Mill
Street mill that John worked in had stood in Stockport for over twenty years,
but was only three stories and considerably smaller, employing only two hundred
men, women and children.
John
had told her many times that the old mill was a fire trap, built in of timber,
whereas the big new mills were built of steel and brick and supposedly
fireproof. Mill fires were not uncommon and feared greatly. The looms in the
Mill Street mill were out of date compared to the machinery going into the new mills,
but he was familiar with the ways of the old mill, the mill owner had not
lowered the wages as much as many of the larger mills and so he felt no
inclination to go elsewhere.
Nancy
had looked down the slope that she’d walked up towards the river. There was
talk of Lord Lane being built up, too, the pretty fields buried under a new sea
of roads, mills, businesses and red brick houses. Nancy felt it a pity that
these open spaces would soon be gone. They’d been a destination, an escape for
the mill workers on warm summer Sundays, a safe place to stroll without having
to go far out into the countryside. Then she would think of the lush Irish
countryside of her childhood and the accompanying hardship of failed crops and
no work, and decided the sacrifice of pretty fields for food on the table and a
roof over their heads was well worth it.
She’d
walked back along the new streets and thought the row upon row of brick
slate-roofed terrace houses to be harsh and charmless in appearance, each
street looking just like the next one, even the shop fronts and public houses.
There were no garden plots behind the houses. Instead, narrow lanes, courts and
alleys had been built behind every cobbled street, some of the courts only
connected to the street by a low narrow passage between houses. As far as Nancy
could see, a single privy or cesspit served the needs of many houses. She
thought that was unsanitary, having always had her own cesspit, and wondered
whose responsibility it would be to maintain them. She shuddered at the
thought.
Although
building was still being carried out around her, people were moving in as she
walked past, their possessions in hand carts and the heavier items on carter’s
wagons. There was talk of a gasworks being built in Stockport and street
lighting installed, but she saw no sign of that in the new town yet.
From
Weavers Row she walked along Ridgeway Street, then through one of the little
passage ways into Foggs Court, through another passage into Edward Street,
turned right at Bradshaw Street,
crossed Bamford Street, along a winding alley between tall houses and into
Mottram Street. On the south side of Mottram Street were labourers marking out
fields for a new mill and reservoir. She walked on past them into Ratcliffe
Street, crossed the road and climbed Cross Street.
At
the end of Cross Street, she saw the foundations being laid for the new church
of St Thomas’s, a very modern construction without the traditional tall
steeple. Instead there were tall columns at the entrance. Brigitte had told her
it was being built in the Roman manner and they’d wondered if the Holy Father
lived in such a place. It was to be a daughter church to St Mary’s in the old
part of town, built to accommodate the influx of people to the new town. John
had mentioned that it was expected to be less drafty and more comfortable than
cold, musty old St Mary’s overlooking the Market Place, or the more modern St Peter’s
west of the Market Place, and he’d a mind to attend it which had surprised
Nancy. Whilst she and John held to the Old Irish Faith in their hearts, they’d
been spat on and openly abused in the street for their nationality and beliefs,
and John was adamant that his English born children would not suffer the same
fate. They’d attended both St Mary’s and St Peter’s several times and found
little difference to the masses of the Old Faith. And John had reminded his
wife that St Mary’s and St Peter’s had, after all, originally been consecrated
in the Old Faith before the time of that evil King Henry and the English
Reformation. A Catholic could be buried in either church cemetery knowing that
it was acceptably consecrated ground. But St Thomas’s would be another matter.
They would need to think upon it.
Nancy
turned left into Small Street and then she was in Upper Hillgate. It was suddenly as busy and noisy as
Lower Hillgate where the amount of traffic going past her front door had
become, at times, a riotous jam of people, horses, coaches and carts. Most of
the passing traffic was connected with the building going on in the rapidly
growing town. It indicated a level of prosperity that was heartening, but
increasingly difficult for Nancy to cope with. Perhaps the New Road would
siphon off some of that traffic and a little order would be restored to Lower
Hillgate. She could but hope.
While
she’d rested over a cup of tea with her sister-in-law, Betty, they remembered
how quiet Stockport had been when they had first moved there in 1802. They’d
left Ireland with her father, Joe Ridel, John’s parents, Jimmy and Ann Elliott,
and brother, Jim. All accomplished weavers, they’d seen the demise of their
prosperous cottage industry as the manufactories were built in ever increasing
numbers across the Irish Sea. John’s other brothers had chosen to emigrate to
America and most of Nancy’s family to Canada, but the voyage to such far flung
destinations was too much for Joseph Ridel and Ann Elliott who both suffered
terrible sea sickness, so they opted for the growing textile industry of
northern England. The separation from their families was hard, but inevitable,
and was the fate of many at that time.
They’d
arrived in Liverpool looking for work and a better life, heard about the
prosperity of Manchester and made their way east, but found the booming town
too busy, too dirty and too crowded. Word of the fine market town of Stockport
in the neighbouring county of Cheshire, home of the first textile mill to ever
be built, had encouraged them to cross the Lancashire Bridge where they quickly
found work. Weavers experienced in the management of looms and fine cloth were
in great demand. Wages were good and rent was cheap back then.
The
cottage in Lower Hillgate suited them all very well to begin with. Then Nancy’s
first child was on the way and Jim had met Stockport born and bred Betty. After
the wedding, Jim and Betty found their own cottage in Upper Hillgate, a little
bigger than the Lower Hillgate cottage and had taken his parents to live with
him there.
Back
in the present, as the snow storm continued to rage across northern England,
Nancy fondly remembered that sunny autumn day strolling through the new part of
Stockport and the comfort of that cup of tea with Betty, and again she felt
sadness at the loss of her mother-in-law, for Ann Elliott had died of fever
this past August. Her father-in-law, Jimmy Elliott, pined for her still. She
knew her husband also missed his mother although he was not one to show it.
Nancy
had never known her own mother after whom she was named. Nancy Ridel had died
giving her life. It was many years ago now and yet her father still spoke of it
as if it was as recent as the loss of Ann Elliott. The bonds of love could not
be broken by something as simple as death.
Nancy
was suddenly jolted out of her midnight reminiscences into the moment as
another sharp cracking sound was heard above her. She felt a real surge of fear
as she looked up.
Nan
had fallen asleep in Dahdo Joe’s embrace. The noise had not woken her. Nancy
rose, took Samuel from her arms and laid him on the mattress next to Johnny. He
did not stir. She straightened up.
And
then the baby inside her quickened for the first time. Suddenly. Unexpectedly.
Vigourously. And her concern was transferred to the new life inside her.
This
pregnancy was taking a toll on her that she’d previously not known. Normally a
woman of great energy, the sickness now laid her low each morning, she battled
fatigue with every step and her usually high spirits were flagging. When she’d
told John that there would be another mouth to feed, he’d smiled his gentle
smile through his unkempt grey beard and said, “Then I’d best be putting aside
another penny a week for him.” He’d dropped a penny into the cracked jar on the
great oak mantel above the fireplace where they kept their rainy day money,
patted her belly lovingly, and poured himself an ale before taking his seat by
the fire. “And you’ll not be lifting that wood bucket when it’s full, Nancy
love. You’ll be getting help or waiting til we get home. We’ll not be losing
this one.”
“And
I’ll be obeying you, will I?” she’d replied playfully as she gratefully
returned his smile. He chuckled.
“You’ll
obey me only as you see fit. As you have always done. And I’ve nothing to be
complaining about there.”
“Ahh
Johnny boy, I did something good to deserve you.”
“That
you did, for what a fine catch I am, Nancy.” He grinned now, baring what
remained of his tobacco stained teeth. The two front teeth at the top were
missing and the sight of his cheeky toothless grin always amused her. That grin
still belonged to the handsome boy she’d fallen in love with so many years ago
when he’d had all his teeth and his hair was thick and blonde. For a brief
moment, she felt her spirits lift, then the sickness came upon her and she
reached for the pail. It was hard work being a woman.
Nancy
had delivered ten children and buried five. It was the way for most women, she
knew that, but the grief and sorrow was no less for knowing it. For her,
children were a blessing, not a burden, and she believed that she and John were
tasked by God with providing for them, however hard that might be. At times, it
had seemed almost too hard, and yet they were still here, still fighting to
make a better life for their children, still struggling every week to stretch
the pennies a little further, and still battling for their rights to have fair
wages and work conditions. That battle had taken a heavy toll on their family
with little to show for it. Whilst John had the patience and forgiveness of a
saint in the ongoing struggle, Nancy was quick to anger and action, a born
fighter with what had once seemed unlimited determination. But this pregnancy
was draining the will to fight from her and she’d grown weary of it.
Now,
as the baby inside her moved, she put her hand on her belly and looked up at
John. “Twould seem the storm has woken the babe.”
John
reached over and placed his hand over hers. “Is he strong?”
“He
is.”
“That
is well for he’ll need to be in this world.”
Dahdo
Joe smiled at his daughter. It was a bright moment in this tension filled
night.
Nancy
said, “It might yet be a girl, John. Will you be minding?”
“I’ll
not be minding. But if it be a girl, she’ll need to be stronger still, for tis
harder in this world for girls than for boys, as well you know.”
The
sudden sound of glass breaking behind the shutters made them all jump. Nan woke
with a start on Dahdo Joe’s shoulder and looked around fearfully. Then she
began to cough, only this time it was a wet cough from deep in her chest. Nancy
and John looked at each other. They knew the sound of that cough and it filled
them with dread.
Dahdo
Joe held Nan firmly while she coughed and coughed, her hand up to her mouth.
She seemed unable to stop. Nancy quickly fetched a cup of warm tea from the
kettle and tried to give it to her, but Nan could not stop long enough to sip
it. And then as suddenly as it had begun, it ended, she pulled her hand away
and looked down at it. Bright red blood had splattered across the palm. She
looked up at her parents in shock. “Mam? Da?”
Nancy’s
heart tightened as she gave her daughter the cup of tea. “This’ll be warming
you, Nan.” She watched the girl sip her tea, then felt her forehead. There was
no fever. She asked tentatively, “Is there pain in your chest?”
“There
is, Mam. Like it is … pinching inside.”
John
took the cup. “You’ll be needing to sleep, sweet girl. And don’t you be
worrying now.” He patted her cheek. It was cool, despite her closeness to the
fire. “Are you warm enough?”
Nan
shivered. “I’m feeling the cold, Da.”
“Tis
a fearsome cold night, Nan, there’s no denying that. We’re all feeling the
chill.”
Dahdo
Joe took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the blood on Nan’s hand.
“Best you be lying down now, child. Nearest the fire. Twill be warmer under the
blankets.” He helped her onto the mattress and tucked her in next to her
sister. She lay on her side facing the fire, exhausted from the coughing fit,
and was soon asleep.
Nancy,
John and Dahdo Joe sat in silence, their shoulders slumped with the knowledge
of what was to come. There was nothing to be said. If they survived the
blizzard, they faced losing Nan.
Nancy
had lost a brother and sister to the consumption before they’d come to England.
And John his own mother. As for Dahdo Joe, the bleeding lung disease had taken
more loved ones from him than he cared to think about. Each of them knew what
was to come.
This
terrible night was one they would never forget. And yet, with the fearful
blizzard raging around them and their beautiful Nan facing the inevitable weeks
ahead, the baby inside Nancy continued to move and kick, busy with its own life
force, unconcerned for the struggles around it. It gave its mother a glimmer of
hope.
They
only realised the storm was abating when the draft under the stair door eased.
John opened the door cautiously and they were surprised to see daylight at the
top of the stairs. Leaving the children still sleeping by the fire, the three
adults tentatively climbed the stairs. The roof rafter had held firm despite
the deep crack across it and the sagging thatch. They went to the front window,
pushed it open and looked out. The sight was almost too unbelievable to take
in.
Snow
still fell softly, the wind no longer driving it. To the west could be seen the
last of the cold front that had brought the extreme weather as it passed
swiftly over the town. Behind it was blue sky, something they hadn’t seen much
of for many months. The clouds would be gone before the hour was up.
Stockport
was buried. The snow came up to the bottom of the upstairs window. The old
cottages on the other side of Lower Hillgate were nothing but a row of windows
above the snow, topped by a good twelve feet of more snow on the high pitched
roofs. The tall chimneys poked their way up through the snow. They’d been built
tall to prevent cinders from setting alight to the thatch, but they’d served
another purpose this past night. John knew his own cottage mirrored those
across the street. Further up the street toward Middle Hillgate, they could see
the more modern two and three storey houses with their shorter chimneys not
visible, and they wondered how the occupants had faired. Had they been able to
keep their fires burning? Upper Hillgate was nothing more than a blur in the
distance. John could only hope for the wellbeing of his father and brother and
their family.
Smoke
from some of the tall mill chimneys struggled upward through the still falling
snow only to be carried back down with the snowflakes, creating the grey greasy
snow so familiar to those living in the industrial towns in northern England.
It was already covering the pristine white snow of the blizzard. But for once
the smoke was a welcome sight, for smoke meant life.
The
window directly opposite opened and the faces of William and Brigitte McNamara
appeared. Although ten years younger, Brigitte was Nancy’s closest friend. They’d
know each other as children in Enniskillen and when Brigitte had turned up in
Stockport, a young bride married to an older widower with four children in tow,
an abiding friendship had formed.
Brigitte
saw Nancy and called out, “Did you fare well, Nancy?”
“We
did, Brigitte, but the roof has not fared so well.” Their voices seemed muffled
as if the surrounding snow absorbed the sound, despite the women being only a
few yards apart.
John
said, “The rafter cracked under the snow, but tis holding. For how long, only
the Holy Mother knows.”
William
asked with concern, “Are your children safe?”
“Indeed
they are, but we’ll be living downstairs until the thaw. There’ll be no repairs
while this snow lies atop us.”
William
was looking along the row of cottages that flanked John and Nancy. His eyes
suddenly opened wide. “Godalmighty! Old Nellie’s roof has caved in!”
John
and Nancy strained to see their neighbour’s cottage without success. “Is it
bad?”
“Terrible
bad, John. Twould seem the whole top floor has caved in. Tis nothing but pile
of straw and snow I see there.”
“That
would account for the fearful noises we did hear through the night.”
“Ahh,
Nellie, Nellie…” William shook his head sadly.
Brigitte
exclaimed, “We must go to her!”
“Indeed,
we must.”
John
and William exchanged a sombre look, knowing full well what they were likely to
find next door. “Do you have a spade, William?”
“I
do. And a shovel.”
“Then
we must do what we can.”
“And
with haste. My boys will help. How is it on this side, John?”
John
peered up and down the street. “I can see smoke from all but the blacksmith’s
house and the shoemaker’s.” He looked up at the snow covering the McNamara’s
roof. “Twill be a fair avalanche when the snow comes off the roof and the thaw
will be a flood.”
“Indeed,
we must be mindful of that when we leave our homes.”
“But
we cannot stand by and do nothing. There will be many in need of help.”
“Well
then, we must begin with Old Nellie.”
Their
eyes met, acknowledging the grim task before them. “We’ll be miners instead of
weavers this day, William.”
“That
we will, John. There’ll be none making it through to the mills. The looms will
stand idle for now. We’d best make a start.”
The
men nodded to each other and turned to go, leaving the women at the windows.
Brigitte
called, “Are you well, Nancy dear?”
“I
am, the saints be praised. The babe quickened last night.”
“I’m
that pleased to hear it.” Brigitte was the nurse midwife in Lower Hillgate and
took a strong interest in the welfare of her female neighbours. “Is it moving
as it should?”
“It
is, but…”
Brigitte’s
brow furrowed with concern. “What bothers you, Nancy?”
“Young
Nan. Tis the bleeding lung, Brigitte. She was poorly last night.”
“Ahh,
no, I’m troubled to hear it.” There was the sound of children’s voices behind
Brigitte. “I’ll come to you as soon as I can. My own bairns are calling me.”
“And
I must tend to mine.”
The
women nodded to each other and closed the windows.
The
aftermath of the storm was felt for many weeks. There was loss of life and
property damage. Tunnels were cut through the snow until there was a network of
them criss crossing the town. Despite the conditions, workers returned to their
stations within days, fearing for their jobs if they didn’t turn up. John,
Ellen, Joseph and Johnny were back at the mill two days after the storm, but
there was no knocker-up to tap at their windows each morning at 6am to wake
them, and so they were sometimes late. But so was everyone else. The mill
owners had to be grateful they turned up at all.
Nan
stayed at home with her mother, grandfather and little brother. She was never
to leave the cottage again.
Frozen
bodies found inside homes had to be left where they were, for they could not
yet be buried. Without a lit fire, their bodies remained preserved until the freeze
was over. The injured were tended to and the homeless taken in. And then when
it seemed as though the good people of Stockport could take no more, the thaw
began and there was flooding in the low lying parts of the town as the snow
turned to water and began its journey down the side of the valley towards the
river. The Elliott’s cottage sat high on the sloping road with six deep steps
down to the footpath and so was clear of the melting snow when it turned Lower
Hillgate into a filthy stream, polluted with chamber pot excrement emptied from
upstairs windows. As the snow receded, it was impossible to keep water from
seeping into the houses around windows and doorways and Nancy mopped up several
times a day until the thaw was over.
When
the funerals finally began to wend their way down the street to St Mary’s
Church, Old Nellie’s was one of the first. Many more followed. To Nancy it
seemed a daily parade of grief passed her home.
A
malaise settled on the town and was felt by all.
Nancy
experienced it deeply. As her pregnancy advanced, she became more exhausted
with each passing day. She went about her tasks without complaint, but her
heart was heavy. Young Nan was slipping away from them and there was nothing
they could do for her as the coughing spasms increased in frequency and
severity. The cottage was filled will the sounds of her distress. After a few
weeks, she was too weak to eat and could only take sips of warm tea. Brigitte
came daily to bring comfort and relief, sometimes taking Samuel back to her own
cottage so that Nancy might get some rest. But rest wasn’t easy. Although her
body yearned for sleep, she was too afraid to close her eyes for fear of waking
to find that Nan had gone from them while she napped.
Dahdo
Jimmy Elliott, Uncle Jim and Aunty Betty visited Nan on Sundays with baskets of
pies and pastries, their own young family in tow. Betty, pregnant with her own
baby, sat with Nancy and they quietly stitched away at the bonnets and smocks
for the forthcoming babies. Little was said but much comfort was gained.
Billy
Harrop had turned up at the cottage two days after the storm, unable to conceal
his pain when John told him of Nan’s condition. He visited her every evening on
his way home from the mill. The two young lovers held hands and looked at each
other longingly. Sometimes Billy stayed for the evening meal and only left when
Nancy began readying the other children for sleep. It was after one such visit
that Nan begged her mother to finish the wedding dress and bonnet, and to have
the wedding slippers made for she wished to be buried in them. With her heart
breaking more as each day passed, Nancy sewed the dress and bonnet while Nan
looked on. The young girl seemed to accept her fate without bitterness. Death
was part of life. It was simply the way of the world.
The
owner of the cottage came to inspect the cracked rafter upstairs. He told Nancy
that he’d suffered much damage to his properties in the storm and he could not
afford to rebuild Old Nellie’s cottage next door, nor could he afford to
replace the rafter and re-thatch the roof for some time. He’d been a good
landlord who valued tenants like the Elliotts and so he did what he could to
make the cottage liveable. He sent two workmen to fix a couple of sturdy timber
struts under the cracked rafter and the sagging thatch. Nancy moved her family
back upstairs, the beds squeezed in
around the intrusive beams in the middle of the bedroom. There was
nothing more to be done there.
Nan
stayed downstairs with Dahdo Joe. It was warmer there. And getting her up and
down the steep stairs had become too difficult. As the baby in Nancy’s belly
grew, the stairs became a trial for her, too, and she slept when she could on
the bench seat opposite her father, Nan on the mattress between them.
The
last week of Nan’s life was fraught with sorrow, with little comfort coming
from the faith that Nancy and John had been born into. Despite still being
devout Catholics in their hearts, they’d fallen out with the old Stockport
priest a few years earlier over how much of their weekly wages they should
provide to the Church. He was London-born, a nasty fellow, too full of the ale
and a hatred for the Irish whom he regarded as unwelcome intruders in England.
It was well known that the donations of the hard working and often poor
Stockport parishioners had not gone towards the maintenance of the church but
rather to the filling of the old priest’s ale jug and other more sinister
habits which were only whispered of. He had come to their home one evening,
drunk and abusive, railing against the filthy Irish and in particular the
Elliotts for putting their mortal needs before the welfare of their holy
priest. John had thrown him out and refused to attend his church ever since. It
was then that John and Nancy had looked towards the Church of England for their
children’s salvation, even though their own hearts would always belong to the
Old Faith.
But for the dying, the last rites of the
Old Faith must be performed and the Church of England had no substitute for
that. So Nancy sent for the the old priest to administer the last rites to her
dying daughter, for surely he could not refuse. But it wasn’t the old priest
who came. Nancy was relieved. The priest who came was a young man, Irish-born
and recently arrived from County Down. Stockport was his first English parish
and he was still grappling with the suffering around him, but he was kind and
his gentle Irish speech was a welcome sound to Nancy’s ears. He did not stay
long for his duties were many, but did what was needed, blessed Nancy and the
baby in her belly, and shook his head sadly as he left. The ill girl’s
suffering had moved him deeply.
Nan
mercifully slipped into a coma in the final days, her face grey and gaunt, her
skeletal frame hardly visible under the blankets, her breath coming in short,
shallow gasps. The struggle for life finally became too much and, cradled in
John’s arms, she breathed her last during the night of the ninth of May, Nancy
and Dahdo Joe weeping softly by her side.
John
laid his daughter back on the pillow. Nancy placed a lit candle in the window
and within the hour Brigitte had arrived with one of her older sons in tow. She’d
risen from her bed to feed her baby and seen the candle. She sent her son off
to fetch some of the neighbours - Charlotte West, Beth Taylor, Sarah Pollitt
and Betty Wignall, all good friends who had help out over the terrible weeks of
Nan’s illness. Another son was dispatched to John’s brother, Jim and an hour
later Betty Elliott joined the women. They came quietly with basins and cloths,
sent John and Dahdo Joe upstairs to sleep and began the business of laying out
the body, for it must be done quickly, before the limbs stiffened.
But
before they cleared the table to make room for the body, the women, deeply
concerned by Nancy’s gaunt appearance, bedded her down on the bench seat.
Despite her growing belly, she’d become very thin and pale whilst caring for
her daughter. The dark circles under her eyes and the slump of her shoulders
testified to the weariness she felt. She was not due to deliver the new baby
for another month, but Brigitte, ever the midwife, commented that she looked
ready now, for the baby was lying low underneath the cotton dress.
Nancy
lay down without objection and watched in silence as her friends gently laid
the body on the table, undressed it and began to wash the rank stench of
sickness off her daughter. She closed her eyes gratefully and woke again as the
knocker-upper tapped at the upstairs window to wake them. The knocker-upper was
an old man, no longer able to stand all day at the looms but still needing to
pay the rent and feed himself. His job was to rise early and walk the streets
with the long sturdy pole that tapped on the windows of the workers who were
willing to pay him a penny a day for his trouble. As he passed the front door,
he saw the candle in the window, looked in and quickly took his hat off,
nodding respectfully to the women inside. It was a familiar sight to one who
had lived so long, but it still saddened him. He moved on to the next house.
Nancy
rose awkwardly, the baby in her womb indeed feeling low and heavy. But it moved
as she stood up, so for now she need not be concerned for it. She went to her
daughter. Her friends had completed their task and cleaned up around them, the
clothing and linen rolled up in their baskets to be taken to their own homes,
washed and brought back after the funeral. The smell of lye soap was strong in
the warm room.
Nancy
had a moment alone by her daughter’s side. She was rendered numb by her grief
and could only stare at what had once been a bright, beautiful girl. The women
turned away respectfully to give her the moment and quietly busied themselves
with preparations for the wake.
John
came downstairs, his black armband in place over his black coat sleeve and
stood on the other side of the table. The wedding bonnet still lay next to Nan’s
head. The women had known that Nancy would want to do this last part of the
laying out ritual herself. Together, Nancy and John lifted their daughter’s
head, slipped the bonnet over the thinned hair and tied it gently under the
chin. Then they folded her gloved hands across her chest and arranged the
fabric of her blue silk wedding dress over her wasted legs. The wedding
slippers looked too big on the skeletal feet. One of Nan’s eyes would not close
completely, making her haggard face look distorted. It was a pitiable sight
indeed.
It
was too much for Nancy and she sobbed. John came to his wife and embraced her,
their exhausted tears running unchecked down their faces.
Then
Dahdo Joe and the children came downstairs and stood around the table with
tearful eyes and lowered heads. Dahdo Joe and the boys wore their black
armbands and Ellen had dressed in the simple black cotton skirt and blouse that
young Nan had so recently worn after their grandmother’s death. John and Nancy
comforted them and in doing so, were lifted a little out of their own grief and
felt more able to go on.
Sarah,
Beth, Charlotte and the two Betty’s picked up their baskets, farewelled the
Elliotts with a few kind words and left to go to their own homes. Brigitte was
making porridge over the fire. She called the family to breakfast, reminding
them gently that they must not be late for the mill, then crossed the street to
tend to her own family. All but Nancy and Dahdo Joe sat on the bench seats and
silently ate their breakfast, their bowls warm in their hands. They would be
back in two hours for the morning break and another meal of porridge and bread.
The midday meal would be potatoes slathered in the gravy from the stew that
Betty Elliott had brought them the evening before. Life had to go on.
Dahdo
Joe left to go to St Mary’s to see the curate and the coffin maker. A funeral
must be arranged. Ellen put Samuel in the playpen, and the Elliotts went to
work just as if it was any other day. But it was not just another day.
The
wake would have to begin without them.
************************
And
so the keening began within hours of the death. The keener was an elderly
Irishwoman from County Cork. Brigitte had sent for her. She would keen for
Friday, the first day, for a shilling, food and as much ale as she wanted.
Another would take her place on Saturday, and yet another on the third day,
Sunday.
Nancy
found her black silk bombazine mourning dress in the blanket box at the end of
her bed. She had not long packed it away after the six month mourning period
for John’s mother, Ann Elliott. It was twenty years old, but it was in good
repair and would do well for the next six months. Because it was high waisted
in the Regency style, it sat comfortably over her swollen belly. She had but
the one pair of shoes, sturdy black leather lace-up walking boots that had also
seen many years of service, her diligent care and regular resoling making a new
pair unnecessary. She favoured them over the wooden soled clogs that the rest
of her family wore, for she complained that the clogs hurt her feet. She took her
black stockings, mourning cap and a black woollen shawl from the chest of
drawers and prepared herself for the day.
The
keener sat at the feet of the corpse and sang of sadness, of loss, and of
grief. Dahdo Joe returned from St Mary’s and the two grandfathers took their
places at the head of the table, as was right for the family elders. A jug of
ale sat on the floor between them. It would soon need refilling. Whilst Joe
Ridel was moderate in his drinking habits, Jimmy Elliott was well known for
consuming more ale than was good for him and was already well into his cups.
Betty
Elliott arrived, changed young Samuel’s nappy, put her own toddler into the
playpen with him and sat with Nancy to help her through the formalities of the
days to come. Although she was not Irish born, she was well versed in the
traditions of the Irish wake. She knew her husband and brother-in-law would
comfort each other with too many mugs of ale in their hands, and her
father-in-law would need carrying home by the end of each day. But at such a
time, all was forgiven. When they sobered up, their pain would be all the
harder to bear.
As
the first women and children from the neighbourhood came through the door with
their baskets of food for the wake, they were immediately caught up in the
somber mood that the keening created. The songs were sometimes in the old Irish
Gaelic and not all of the mourners understood the words, but the soft earthy
voice and lilting melodies conveyed the meaning without the need for knowing
the language. The women arranged their food on the sideboard and went to Nancy
on the bench seat, said their few words of comfort to her, then let her be, for
it was obvious to all that this day was especially hard on the dead girl’s
mother, what with the imminent birth and her looking so worn out.
The
mourners spoke to each other in hushed voices as they lay their gifts of wild
herbs and flowers around the body. Their offerings had been hastily gathered
from nearby fields and overgrown scraps of land between houses. It was not
seemly to enter the house of the deceased without them. The flowers were not
ornamental. They were to disguise the odour that would begin to come from the
corpse as they day progressed, for the fire was kept high and the room warm for
the living, despite the effect it had on the dead. And the smell of death was
needed before it was considered safe to bury the deceased. Everyone knew the
tales of the poor souls thought to be dead but who were still living, how they
seemed not to breathe and were cold to the touch, but who came to life inside
their coffins. Those who could afford it buried their dead with a rope inside
the coffin attached to a bell above the ground, just in case. For most, though,
it was a simple wooden coffin they lowered into the ground, knowing full well
that the decomposing body inside it was beyond hope of rising again in this
life. There was a practical purpose to the three day wake, the warm fire and
the display of the body.
None
of the mourners was wealthy, but all benefited from the mill wages one way or
another, so an offering of coins was customary. A small bowl placed by Nan’s
head appeared to miraculously fill with pennies during the wake as, one by one,
each mourner stood by the body to say a prayer for the dear girl and then pass
a hand discreetly over the bowl. How much they were able to leave was nobody’s
business but their own, but each was generous in their own way. Sarah Pollitt
had recently buried her husband and times were particularly tough for her and
the Pollitt children, but she had enough put by to drop three pennies into the
bowl. Brigitte managed six pennies, Charlotte eight. The bowl meant the
difference between being able to pay the grave digger and the coffin maker like
respectable people, or seeking Poor Relief from the church like the less
fortunate. It was of great importance to the family of the dead.
The
day progressed slowly. Nancy was numb with weariness and grief. Betty Elliott
kept a watchful eye on her, bringing her food and drink, but Nancy had no appetite
for any of it. Her father was able to encourage her to take a mug of ale,
telling her she must think of the baby and keep her strength up. When John and
the children came home, they went upstairs to dress in their mourning attire,
then joined their mother silently to wait for the next wave of mourners, for
the mill workers were home now and it was their turn to pay their respects.
The
number of jugs of ale and rum grew on the sideboard when the men and their
families came through the door. The women and girls spoke quietly to Nancy and
John, cheeks were kissed and hands pressed, their eyes openly displaying their
sadness. Young Nan had been part of all their lives for eighteen years and much
loved. The tragedy was felt by all.
Mugs
were passed around. Tea was offered to those without the taste for ale or rum.
Comments were exchanged quietly about the poor state of Nancy’s health after
the terrible strain of the past weeks. Someone brought her a scone and a mug of
ale and she took it without looking up to see who proffered it. The day seemed
to drag, her weariness making her feel desperate to put her head down and
sleep.
The
evening mourners came and went. As each one came to Nancy to express their
grief, she began to shift about uncomfortably on the bench seat, for her back
was aching and there was a tightening in her belly. After so many labours and
births, she should have recognised what was happening, and so it was a surprise
to her when she finally realised that the backache and tightenings were coming
at regular intervals. She whispered it in John’s ear, he quickly spoke to
Brigitte and Nancy was ushered upstairs to be examined. Betty Elliott, Sarah
and Charlotte accompanied her.
Brigitte
felt her belly with expert hands. “It is the labouring pains, Nancy.”
“But
tis in the back, Brigitte. I’ve not felt that before.”
“Ahh,
that’d be the lie of the baby.” She felt the belly low down. “And yet it feels
right. The babe’s head is down low.”
Charlotte
said, “Two of mine were in the back, Nancy.”
Betty
added, “Aye, and one of mine. It is not so uncommon.”
Nancy
looked up at them plaintively. “But I be feeling too tired to be labouring. I
have not the strength for it.”
Brigitte
stood back with her hands on her hips. “Be that as it may, this baby will be
coming soon.”
Nancy
struggled up from the bed. “But not this day?”
“No,
dear, I think not. The pains are too far from each other yet. Tomorrow, maybe.
And you must indeed rest. I will sit with you for awhile and you will sleep, if
you can.”
“I
must attend to the mourners…”
Betty
interrupted. “We will attend to them, Nancy. You must not concern yourself.
Your thoughts must be for the babe, now.” She leaned over, took off the
mourning cap and gently removed the pins from Nancy’s grey-blonde hair,
releasing it to fall around her shoulders. Sarah helped her out of her mourning
dress and hung it on a peg on the wall.
Nancy
lay back on the bed in her chemise, relieved to have the responsibility taken
from her. “Yes, I must think of the babe.” She yawned deeply. “I may be able to
sleep a little. The pain is not so bad yet. Just a little…” She closed her
eyes.
Nancy
woke up in darkness and listened to the noises downstairs. The wake had not yet
reached the rowdy stage, but that would inevitably come tomorrow. She tried to
rise and felt the pain in her back grip her, cutting her breath short. She
tensed and waited for it to pass. Then she struggled out of bed, combed her
hair and pinned it up, dressed and went wearily downstairs. John helped her to
the bench seat. “Tis almost done for the night, Nancy love.”
Then
Billy Harrop came with his parents and siblings. The news had been broken to
him at the mill and he was inconsolable. He wept over Nan’s body and would have
thrown himself upon the table had it not been for the ministerings of his
father and John Elliott. He stayed for the customary hour, never taking his
tear-filled eyes off his fiancé, then was helped away by his family. Nancy
thought her heart could not break any more than it had, but the sight of the
poor boy’s grief touched her deeply.
Nancy’s
labour progressed slowly as the evening wore on. With each pain, she paused
what she was doing or saying, tensed on the bench seat and waited it out. It
was plain to all what was happening. Little comment was made, for what was
there to say about the obvious? But the women looked at her sympathetically,
for the timing was indeed unfortunate.
The
first day’s mourners left as a late supper was being served to the family.
Dahdo Jimmy, weeping drunkenly, was helped away by Jim and Betty. He’d sleep
soundly tonight and be back tomorrow to mourn again. A few late mourners would
come soon, mostly older women who could keep watch over the body through the
night without the need to do a shift at the mills the following day.
Dahdo
Joe fell asleep sitting up on the bench seat and was gently laid down and
covered with a blanket. John and the children were dispatched to bed at the
normal time, for they would need to work the next day which was a Saturday. The
third day of the wake would fall on a Sunday, so John would take his turn by
his daughter’s side on Saturday night. But tonight the elderly women keeping
watch settled in with their ale and rum. Despite the drink, they would remain
vigilant, for evil spirits and body snatchers lurked in every doorway and must
be kept away. Their responsibility was a serious business. Nan’s body would be
safe in their care.
Upstairs,
Nancy dozed fitfully between contractions through the night while John snored
heavily next to her. He’d assured Brigitte before she’d left that he would
fetch her if she was needed. Nancy knew how exhausted and dispirited he was,
but he could always be relied upon if her labour took a turn for the worse. She
was relieved that the night passed without needing to wake him.
In
the morning, the tap-tap-tap of the knocker-upper at the window woke John as
usual. After reassuring himself that his wife was alright, he saw to the
children downstairs, then passed toddler Samuel to Charlotte to care for while
Nancy lay abed upstairs. Brigitte came early and declared that Nancy was to
stay upstairs from now on as the wake was not a proper place for a confinement.
As
John left for the mill, he hesitated at the door, casting a worried glance
behind him. He did not know what he would find when he returned home that day.
He prayed silently to the Holy Mother for the safety of his wife and unborn
child.
Saturday’s
keener was a heavy drinker. Younger than the first keener, she began the
keening mournfully, but by the end of the day she was so full of ale that she
didn’t know what she was singing. Love songs, bawdy bards and folk ballads of
the old country poured out of her, but this was how an Irish wake progressed.
The small room was full of increasingly drunk mourners who sang along with the
keener. Nancy listened to them from the upstairs room, taking comfort in
knowing that Nan was not alone down there.
Her
labour seemed to change little through the day, the pains neither increasing in
severity nor frequency. Her last two babies had delivered within a few hours of
the first pain, but the one before that had lasted two days. No two labours
were alike and none could be predicted. Brigitte sat with her when she could,
but she had her own family to see to, so the neighbouring women took their
turns to sit with her. It was not safe to leave her alone so far into her
labour, and many a time it had been Nancy sitting with them through their
labours, so it was not considered a burden to do so for her.
The
coffin maker arrived in the afternoon with the simple wooden box and Nan’s body
was carefully lifted and placed in it. Muslin was arranged around her to line
the coffin and a small cushion placed under her head. Billy came again, this
time sitting quietly next to the body, his head lowered and resigned tears
sliding down his cheeks. He wore the black mourning arm band on the sleeve of
his black jacket, as did the Elliott males. Dahdo Joe and Dahdo Jimmy took pity
on him and plied him with ale. He left, rolling drunk, as John and the children
returned from the mill.
John
went straight upstairs and sat with his wife awhile. Nancy had thought herself
tired before the labour began, but now she felt so drained that she was barely
able to raise her head to sip the tea that John held for her. They exchanged
few words. When Brigitte came to check on her, John questioned the midwife with
his eyes. “Tis in the hands of God now, John.” It was small comfort.
After
awhile, John went downstairs to take his place by his daughter’s side for the
night’s vigil. Half a dozen others stayed with him, for where there was free
ale, there was always a reason to stay.
Saturday
night was much the same as the night before for Nancy’s labour, but as the
night drew to a close, she felt the pains begin to increase in strength and,
whereas she’d coped with them in stoic silence, now they made her cry out.
Betty Elliott stayed with her throughout the night.
At
sunrise on the Sunday morning, Betty went quietly downstairs to tell John that
Brigitte was needed. He sent young Joseph to fetch her. Brigitte dispatched
Betty home for some sleep, assessed Nancy and prepared the room for the birth,
then sat by the bed. The other women would join her when they could. Nancy
moaned and cried out with each contraction. There was nothing to be done now
but wait it out.
Sunday’s
keener was young and blessed with a strong voice. She began mournfully, but her
singing was interrupted by the cries from upstairs so often that by lunch time
she was singing raucously at the top of her voice, slapping her knee and
stamping her foot to the rhythm of the fiddles and drums which appeared as the
day progressed. Those drunk enough danced irreverently to the tunes played
out. Those not drunk enough
watched on approvingly. It was a distraction from the drama going on upstairs
and the decomposing body on the table. It was a very Irish wake indeed.
A
young curate from St Mary’s came in the early afternoon and consulted with
John. He clearly did not approve of the Irish way of seeing off the dead, but
he respectfully said nothing and discussed a time to suit himself and the
family. The smell of the body removed any doubt about whether or not it was
safe to bury Nan. He agreed to a 4 o’clock funeral that very day and left to
make arrangements. John went upstairs to tell Nancy. She burst into tears. She
was to miss the funeral of her own daughter. But she knew it was best to have
it today. A funeral on Monday meant time off from the mill for the whole family
and a loss of wages that they could not afford, especially with them being
short a wage since Nan’s illness began. And even if it had waited until Monday,
Nancy would have still missed it. It seemed like cruelty heaped on unbearable
grief to her and she wondered, not for the first time, at the unkindness of the
Holy Mother, for had she not been a mother herself?
The
coffin was taken from the house at a half past three, carried on the shoulders
of brothers John and Jim Elliott, Dahdo Joe and Dahdo Jimmy, young Joseph and
Billy Harrop. It was a cool, cloudy day and a light drizzle dampened their hats
and shoulders as they made their way down Lower Hillgate towards St Mary’s. The
curate walked sombrely before it, with family, friends and neighbours following
behind the coffin. Nancy’s absence from the funeral was noted but not commented
on, for everyone by now knew the reason for it.
As
the coffin left the house, Nancy looked up at Brigitte with pleading eyes. “I
must see it, Brigitte, I must see it.” Betty, Sarah and Charlotte were in the
room with her. They looked at each other uncertainly, for Nancy was in a
severely weakened state. But she insisted, “I must!” They could not refuse.
They helped her to rise and supported her next to the window. She pressed her
hands against the cold glass, pushed the window opened, looked down upon the
bleak procession and sobbed.
And
then her waters broke. She gasped. Brigitte lifted her chemise and said, “At
last. Not long now. Back to bed for you, my dear. ”
Nancy
turned away from the window and the pain hit her so hard she almost fell
against the bed. The overwhelming urge to push that she had so longed for but
so feared made her cry out, “Holy Mother, help me!” The women hastily
manoeuvred her onto her back and she bore down hard. Brigitte knelt on the side
of the bed and parted Nancy’s knees. “It’s coming fast now, Nancy, you must
keep pushing.”
She
obeyed, for she could not do otherwise, then collapsed back onto the bed as the
pain passed. “I can’t do it, Brigitte,” she whispered, “I’ve not the strength
left in me.”
“You
can and you will, dear,” Brigitte said matter-of-factly. “Sarah, get behind
Nancy and brace her when the next pain comes. Charlotte, Betty, hold her legs
away for she cannot lift them herself.”
The
next pain came quickly. Nancy felt Sarah support her as she groaned into the
pain. The women encouraged her with comforting words. Then Brigitte said
earnestly, “The head is coming. You must keep pushing now, Nancy! Don’t you be
stopping!”
Nancy
summoned every ounce of energy left in her and bore down. She felt the
unbearable burning pain as the baby’s head was delivered. Another pain came
and, knowing it to be the last one, she bore down again as the body and limbs
passed out of her.
The
baby began to cry immediately. Nancy fell back into Sarah’s arms, her breath
coming in shallow gasps. “It is a girl, Nancy. Methinks a good six pounds. And
she’s a pretty little thing.”
Nancy
closed her eyes. She was pleased with the news, but she only had one thought in
this moment. “Do you have the holy water, Brigitte?”
“I
do. And I’ll be baptising the babe as soon as you give me a name for her.”
Nancy
nodded. It was the reassurance she needed to hear. So many babies born alive
did not survive long enough to be baptised in the church. Midwifes were
sanctioned by most churches to perform a baptism at the birth, especially if
the baby was at risk. For Nancy and most of the women of her time, the midwife’s
baptism ensured that the baby’s soul would enter the gates of Heaven, and if
the baby did well enough to be baptised at church, it was merely the child’s
official entry into the Christian faith. But it was the midwife’s baptism that
guaranteed that mother and child would one day be reunited in Heaven.
Sarah
rose from the bed, adjusted the pillow under Nancy’s head and said quietly, “Nancy’s
terrible pale, Brigitte.”
“She
is. These past weeks have been hard on her.” The concern in Brigitte’s voice
was evident. “Can you be fetching her some broth, Charlotte?”
“Aye,
there is broth still warm in the pot.” She left the room.
Then
Brigitte leaned in close to Nancy and said, “Only the afterbirth to come now
and then you can rest, my dear. But first open your eyes, Nancy. Look, she’s a
pretty little thing.”
Nancy
opened her eyes briefly. Betty was holding the swaddled baby before her. She
was indeed a pretty child, even with the birth fluids not yet washed from her.
Plump and pink with a rosebud mouth, she was already asleep, her tiny fingers
twitching a little as she dreamed the dreams of the newborn.
Nancy
smiled weakly, closed her eyes and waited for the pain that would expel the
afterbirth. But instead of a pain, she felt an unexpected movement inside her.
She flinched and opened her eyes in surprise. Brigitte was watching her
closely. “What is it, Nancy?”
She
barely had the energy to speak. “I felt…something.”
“A
pain?”
No.
A…kick.”
Brigitte
was suddenly alert. She pulled Nancy’s chemise up and felt her belly. “There be
another babe in there, dear. Tis not over yet.”
Nancy’s eyes opened wide. Twins?
Brigitte
continued to palpate. “The babe is very small. And I believe it will come arse
first.”
Nancy
felt a surge of fear. Breech births usually meant death for the baby and often
for the mother if it couldn’t be delivered. She’d heard horror stories of women
going to their Maker with a dead child hanging out of them. Would John come
home from burying his daughter to find he’d need to bury a wife and another
child as well? The fear shot a bolt of adrenalin through her system.
She
felt the pain come upon her and the second baby moving down inside her. “I can
feel it coming. Brigitte, I can feel it coming!”
“Then
you must do what you can, Nancy. Sarah, she’ll need help…”
But
before Sarah could get back onto the bed, the urge to push, fuelled by the
flush of adrenalin through her, made her lift herself up and bear down hard.
Brigitte knelt on the bed between her legs and watched as the baby’s backside
appeared. “Tis another girl, Nancy.”
The
contraction abated briefly, long enough for Nancy to look up at Brigitte and
whisper, “You can see that it is a girl?”
“I
know a girl’s backside when I see it.”
The
pain returned and with another mighty push, Brigitte said, “The arms and legs
are born. And she’s squirming already. She wants to live, Nancy, and you must
do your best for her now. The head will be hard to come, it will hurt, but you
must not give up.”
The
next pain came on top of the last. Nancy bore down against it and held on,
squeezing her eyes shut and gasping for breath as the contraction lingered. And
then she felt a pain that was worse than anything she had ever experienced. Her
body was imploding with it and she was certain she would die.
“Don’t
stop, Nancy! She’s almost here!”
That
was all Nancy needed to hear. If she must die to give this baby life, then so
be it. With the last dregs of energy left in her, she delivered the head with a
scream that could be heard up and down Lower Hillgate.
At
first there was silence. That deathly silence she’d heard twice before with the
two stillborns she’d laboured to deliver. But Brigitte had said the baby wanted
to live! Surely she would breathe? She must breathe!
Nancy
opened her eyes as Brigitte cut the cord, held the tiny infant up by its ankles
and spanked its little bottom. Once. Twice. Three times. And finally the longed
for cry came. Weak at first, but stronger with each gasping breath. Nancy
closed her eyes in relief.
Brigitte
handed the baby to Sarah. “Wrap her well, Sarah, I must see to this afterbirth.”
The
afterbirth came easily and it was finally over. Nancy lay limp as a dishrag on
the bed and opened her eyes as Sarah brought her the second child, swaddled in
linen. She was shocked at how tiny the baby was, no bigger than one of Ellen’s
cloth dolls. But the tiny child squirmed and wriggled as her little arms
struggled to free themselves from the linens. There was a life force there that
was pleasing to see. Nancy wanted to hold her, to hold them both, but did not
have the strength to raise her arms.
Then
she saw Brigitte examining the basin containing the afterbirth. The midwife
looked up. “Tis a miracle the twin lives at all. They are identical, Nancy,
with only the one afterbirth to nourish them. The cord for the first one is fat
and full, but the cord for the second one is thin and white. It has twisted and
starved the little one. I’ve seen it before, but the starved one is most oft
stillborn.” She looked at the second twin. “She’s a fighter, that one, with a
strong will. A miracle, indeed. And she can’t be weighing more than two pounds.”
Charlotte
returned to the room carrying a jug of broth. She looked at the two swaddled
babies and exclaimed, “What is this? I leave one baby and come back to find
two?” Then she saw the size of the tiny twin. “Ahh, but this one is too small
to be real!” She put the broth down and took the squirming infant from Sarah. “Tis
too much to believe.” She tried to swaddle the baby again. “She’s restless. The
birth has unsettled her.”
Brigitte
said, “She’ll be wanting to feed. She has much catching up to do.”
Charlotte
sat on the bed. “Can you give her the breast now, Nancy? I know you’re milk won’t
come in for some while, but she’s needing to suckle.”
Nancy
nodded and looked down at her stained chemise. Charlotte pulled it to one side
to expose a breast and carefully placed the baby against the nipple. Without
hesitation, the baby nuzzled the breast, her little mouth searching for the
nipple. She found it and latched on, sucking strongly. Charlotte put a pillow
under the baby and moved Nancy’s arm around to cradle her. A little arm freed
itself from the swaddle and wrapped around the breast possessively, fingers
spread wide and her tiny body relaxed. After a moment, she stopped suckling and
slept. Nancy could not take her eyes off her.
The
women heard the door open and close downstairs, then quick footsteps on the
stairs. In a moment, John was at the door, the children and Dahdo Joe gathering
behind him. Sarah, Charlotte and Betty went out onto the landing to make room
for the family, leaving Brigitte by Nancy’s side. They crowded in. John’s eyes
were red from weeping. He looked anxiously towards Brigitte. “Is she…?”
His
glance quickly took in his wife’s weak but welcoming smile, then the baby in
Brigitte’s arms and the baby at Nancy’s breast. “There are two?”
“Twin
daughters, John.”
“Twin
daughters?” he repeated disbelievingly. He went to Nancy and sat on the bed,
taking her hand in his. “Nancy, my love, are you well?”
Brigitte
answered. “She is terrible weak, John, but there is no bleeding and no fever.”
Nancy
met her husband’s relieved eyes. “Our Nan?” she whispered.
“She’s
with the Holy Mother now, Nancy.”
“And
it was a good funeral?”
“It
was. The curate was kind and spoke well. We did her proud.”
Nancy
sighed deeply. It was done. Nan was safe with the angels now.
John
asked, “And the babes? Have they been baptised with the holy water?”
Brigitte
answered, “Not yet. They cannot be until you have given me their names.”
John
looked at his wife. He could hardly take it in. “We had thought Jane if it was
a girl. Another name will have to be chosen for the second one. Which one came
first?”
“This
one came first.” Betty handed the bigger baby to John.
He
held her and kissed her forehead. She still slept. “Then this one shall be
Jane. Are you in agreement, Nancy?”
Nancy
nodded.
He
looked down at Jane. “Ahh she’s a sweet one, to be sure.” He laid her against
Nancy and picked up the littlest baby awkwardly. “Why, there’s nought to her!”
Brigitte
said, “She was arse first, John, and twas a trial indeed for Nancy.”
John
could not take his eyes off the tiny baby. “I did hear a story once about babes
born wrong way ‘round, that they will live the wrong way ‘round or some such
thing.”
Brigitte
smiled. “They say that babies born thus will never know a straight path in
life. But who does?”
Charlotte
said, “We have a saying in Lincolnshire that a wrong way baby will grow to be a
healer.”
“I
have heard that too,” Brigitte said. “That is never a bad thing.”
John
frowned. “Will she live?”
Brigitte said sombrely, “She is formed
well, but too small for thriving. I’ve not seen one such as her live long,
John, tis the truth and I be sorry to tell it.” She leaned down and touched the
baby’s hand, feeling it curl around her finger and hold on. “She’s in the Holy
Mother’s hands now, John, but she’s strong. Tis a surprise how strong she be.”
She pulled her finger away.
John
tenderly pulled back the swaddle to look at the baby. “Why she’s nothing but
skin and bone.” He smiled suddenly, joy filling him for the first time in many
months. “And see, she’s opening her eyes.” He looked up at his family gathered
inside the room. “Come see your little sister. What do you think of her?”
“She’s
not as pretty as the other,” Ellen remarked.
“She
looks like a little old lady, all wrinkly and such,” Joseph said with curled
lip, not impressed by any of what he saw.
Dahdo
Joe sighed heavily, came forward and sat on the end of the bed, his eyes wet
with relieved tears. He patted Nancy’s leg tenderly. “You’ve come through it
again, darlin’ girl.”
Nancy
knew he was thinking of her mother who had breathed her last giving birth. “I
have, Da. But I cannot be doing it again.” She looked up at John pathetically. “I
cannot be doing it again, John.”
“And
neither shall you, Nancy love. On my oath I do promise you that.” John took his
wife’s hand and kissed it tenderly.
Brigitte
said, “Tis glad I am to hear that, but those words are not for our ears. Tis a
private matter for husbands and wives.” She smiled down at her patient.
Johnny
reached up and touched the tiny baby. “Why’s she all wrinkly, Da?”
“She’ll
fill out, you’ll see, Johnny.” Nancy watched on listlessly as John continued. “She
puts me in mind of my old Great Granny Elliott in Ireland. She was very old
indeed and seemed to us bairns to be nothing but a face of smiling wrinkles. Oh
we did love our funny old Granny Elliott, God bless her soul.” He stroked the
little face and the baby opened her eyes fully.They were the dark eyes of a
newborn, but he knew they would become as pale blue as his own in time, for all
his family were fair haired and blue eyed. The dark eyes looked straight at him
and he was smitten. “Ahh but she’s a treat, she is.” The baby wriggled and he
carefully placed her back in her mother’s arms where she latched onto the
breast again. “My old Granny’s name was Sarah Ann. Not Sarah. We’d get our ears
boxed if we called her Granny Sarah. It must always be Granny Sarah Ann. What
do you think of that for a name, Nancy? Sarah Ann.”
Nancy
nodded, smiled and whispered, “Baptise them thus.”
Brigitte
took the small bottle of holy water from her bag and went to the two babies.
She wiped both their foreheads clean of the birth fluids, then wet her finger
with the holy water and made a sign of the cross on the biggest baby’s head. “In
the presence of these witnesses, I do baptise thee, Jane Elliott, in the name
of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.” The baby woke and began to squirm.
Going
to the second baby, she wet her finger again, made the sign of the cross on the
suckling infant and said, “In the presence of these witnesses, I do baptise
thee, Sarah Ann Elliott, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”
John
and the others in the room crossed themselves and bowed their heads reverently.
John looked up. “This’ll not be a day to be forgotten.”
“Tis
one I’ll be remembering,” Brigitte said as the replaced the cork in the bottle.
“Tis the twelfth day of May and the first time I’ve seen one sister buried as
two others are born. Tis a day for laughter and tears, to be sure.” She put the
bottle back into her bag, then waved her hand at the men folk and the children
crowding into the small room. “Now out, all of you. We have business to attend
to here.”
John
shepherded his family downstairs.
Nancy
looked down at her new daughters. Jane was still looking for the nipple to
attach to, while Sarah Ann suckled contentedly. “Jane’ll not nurse,” she
whispered.
Brigitte
looked at the babies knowingly. “She’ll learn soon enough, never you fear. It’ll
be the other one that keeps you on your toes, Nancy, that’s a certainty. It’ll
be Sarah Ann who’ll keep you awake and want to nurse at all hours if she’s to
live. It’s always the little ones, and this one is as little as I’ve been
blessed to see.” She touched the heel of the tiny baby. “But tis what she needs
and she’ll fight for what she needs like she fought for it in your belly. You’ll
see. You’ll have no peace with this one.” She grinned fondly. “Little Sarah Ann
Elliott.”
***********************
The completed novel will be available soon!
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