A Sense of Duty Read online

  A Sense of Duty

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part 1

  1

  2

  3

  Part 2

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  Part 3

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  Copyright

  A Sense of Duty

  Sheelagh Kelly

  For the Dead, in appreciation of their sufferings

  Part 1

  Childhood

  1855-1861

  1

  Katherine Kilmaster weighed fourteen pounds at birth. She was her mother’s last child.

  This was not to say that her entry to the world caused maternal expiry, merely that the shock of it inspired firm decision: no more would Beata Kilmaster suffer thus. Alas, how could she or anyone else predict that in another way it was already too late, that Katherine’s arrival would affect the lives of every member of this family?

  The huge blood-smeared infant burst into the February night on an explosion of steam, inflicting a discomfort that would extend far beyond the immediate physical pain. After twenty years of marriage, a three-year gap since the entry of the last baptism in the family bible and all the indications of a dwindling fertility, Beata had dared to assume that her childbearing days were over and that the poverty which had dogged her could soon be remedied as first one and then another of her offspring started work. Hence her air of dread upon experiencing that familiar squirm of new life within, her abdominal skin stretching tauter and tauter until it appeared it might split – and little wonder, commented observers now at Katherine’s dramatic entrance in the bedroom of the Kilmasters’ tiny cottage.

  ‘Lord a’mercy, she’s a biggun!’ came the gasp from one of the youngsters crammed into the solitary bedroom with their parents, all craning their necks for a look at the product of their mother’s labour who had kept them from sleep and who now slithered from beneath the maternal nightgown on to a straw palliasse. ‘There be more meat on her than Ashman’s pig!’

  Naturally, no one was aware of her exact weight as they all gathered round to gape at the bawling newcomer with fists like small hammers and thighs like Christmas hams. This extraordinary fact was only to be revealed a few days later when Katherine, swathed in a ragged shawl, was bundled from the rickety stone hovel, along the frosty village street to the grocery, accompanied by an eager gaggle of spectators, carried through to the back of the shop amidst the sacks of flour and oats, and dumped with great ceremony on to the scales normally reserved for potatoes.

  ‘A ztow-n!’ A shriek of incredulity distorted the grocer’s Somerset burr as he employed yet another brass weight to counterbalance the hefty babe. ‘A full stone! Well, I nevurr seen the loike – you’m given birth to a sack o’taters, missus!’

  ‘And to be sure that were what it felt like,’ the sorely afflicted mother declared to an astonished, tittering crowd who had been laying wagers on the outcome. ‘Never again!’

  The latter phrase was to become commonly heard in the following months, during which Beata lost none of her sense of amazement, exemplified by a shake of head and a heavy sigh every time she laid eyes upon her seventh living child. If the climacteric could not be trusted to halt conception, then one look at the enormous Katherine most surely did the trick, as Beata was keen to inform anyone who had not yet heard. ‘’Twere like being delivered of an elephant. Never again!’

  And her sigh was echoed more mournfully by her husband, Richard, who could not fail to interpret the unspoken message: his conjugal pleasures had been mercilessly docked.

  From the outset the effort to feed and clothe Katherine was a constant battle for this unskilled labourer and his wife. Notwithstanding the contributions made by his two elder children and the allowance of flour from his employer the miller, the eleven shillings Richard earned were woefully insufficient to maintain nine in victuals, let alone pay the one and sixpence rent and the doctor’s bills, and the incessant need to reclothe.

  By her third birthday, Katherine – or Kit as she had become – was almost as large as her six-year-old sister, Amelia, whose outgrown dresses lasted barely a month on Kit before her sturdy knees were showing beneath the hem. Inheriting a deeper, richer version of her father’s auburn hair, but alas his lofty stature too; her mother’s clear blue gaze, but her propensity to accrue fat, Kit was someone to be pitied or teased, though never ignored. Yet, as the newest member of the Kilmaster family grew, so did a warm and amiable personality, and despite being the cause of extra hardship she became a favourite with her father, who, denied any form of tenderness from his wife lest it lead to dangerous intimacy, turned his own limited affections to Kit, calling her his big, beautiful girl and donating a sweetmeat from the pocket of his coarse linen frock-smock on the rare occasions he had a half-farthing to spare.

  This did not sit well with others: Montague, the eldest, condemned as a reprobate by his father for his inability to show deference to those in high office and thereby keep a job; fifteen-year-old Gwen who should have been allowed time to court a sweetheart after working so hard in the fields but instead was fettered to the home by yet another youngster, especially one of such proportions – ‘Why, I do need a crane to lift her!’; Owen and Amelia, small enough still to need parental indulgence. There were few enough morsels of benevolence to go round as it was in this austere and overcrowded household – why, they asked, should this gurt lump of a child be the one to receive them?

  Nor did Richard’s wife approve of his acts of waste when she herself had been forced to take in laundry to eke out their income. Hence, when Kit’s pretensions of daintiness caused her to lollop around the room in lively imitation of the dancing she had seen around the village maypole, she drew not compliment but ridicule from the children and rebuke from her mother, who whipped her soundly to discourage her from pagan ritual and the even greater sin of self-importance. To Beata, Kit was just an oddity to be paraded as testament to her own powers of endurance. Any display of fondness, which would usually only extend to a pat, was always accompanied by that distinctive shake of the head and that telling sigh of, ‘Never again.’

  Far from being warped by the combined disapproval, this happy child did not see herself through others’ eyes and merely danced when no one was around to curb her, danced to the hymns learned at chapel, performing for her own delight or perhaps for Charity, the only one of her sisters not to mock. She yearned to be able to dance for her father too, but received stern warning that it ill behoved the child of a respectable Methodist family to occupy herself thus.

  Seeking male approbation elsewhere, Kit decided one day to await her elder brother’s homecoming from the coal mine, accustomed and unafraid now of Montague’s devilish face, for out of the blackness shone kind blue eyes. It might have been a risk, for Monty, being such a disappointment to his father, could have resented the subject of Richard’s favours. True, he did harbour a grudge that every penny he earned was poured into the family coffer, receiving small thanks in exchange, but he was not so mean as some to direct it at this innocent child.

  Disporting herself before him in twirling skirts, bare buttocks and all, Kit was thrilled when, instead of issuing outright c
ondemnation, her brother gaped and stuttered, ‘Very expert, Kit, but—’, which she immediately grasped as praise and cavorted with even more abandon, robbing him of the heart to complete his reproach. Henceforth, whenever the opportunity arose she danced for him, eager for an audience and too young to decipher the hint of censure that accompanied his kindness.

  Then, one evening after Kit had gone to bed, there came up through the floor the sound of angry voices that rose into a fiery exchange between mother and son. On the surface, Monty was a reserved and pensive individual like his father, but when confronted would display his mother’s lack of self-control, and there was most definitely confrontation that night, for the next morning he had vanished.

  Bereft, Kit risked censure from her mother to ask where he was, as the two of them were labouring over a steaming trough of laundry in the barren twiggy area behind the cottage where the only sign of greenery was in the late winter vegetables.

  ‘He be gone to look for work!’ Though parsimonious with affection, Beata always had time to answer queries, however young the interrogator. Besides, there was something in Kit’s attitude that transformed her three years into thirty-three and often Beata genuinely forgot she was speaking to a child. ‘The quarrelsome young varmint, he’s lost himself another job – that’s a score he’s had since he left school! You’d think with times being so bad round ’ere and half the population gone from the village to the town to find work he’d think himself lucky, but do he ever?’ Her voice lingered as a cloud on the cold morning air, her fists scarlet on the wooden handle of the posser as it rose and plunged. ‘Tried everything from making buttons to digging coal, not expert at any of ’em, and he still thinks he can tell the master how to do the job. Don’t know where he gets that temper from, his father’s such a mild-mannered soul.’ Under her violent thrashing water trickled over the sides of the tub, mingling with the stream of effluent from the nearby pigsty, plus that from the shallow excavations that held human waste. ‘Wrong time o’ year for the hiring fair – at any rate everybody round ’ere knows Monty Kilmaster too well to risk hiring him – so, he be gone to other parts, and there’s your answer.’

  ‘Is he comin’ back?’ asked her wistful assistant, with infantile attempts to attack the laundry in the trough using a sized-down version of her mother’s posser.

  ‘Better not if he don’t get no job!’ puffed an exerted Beata with nary a hint that she might be joking. The loss of Monty’s wage had made a huge deficit in her housekeeping. ‘I’d kick him out fer good.’

  ‘Aw, don’t do that, Mother!’ appealed Kit, too young to realize she was about to let slip her secret. ‘Who’d I have to dance for then?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell ’ee about that?’ Beata delivered a clout that was laden with suds, knocking the infant off her feet to land in the surrounding quagmire. ‘Sinful child! I don’t know where you learn it – certainly not in this house. You’ll dance for the Devil, indeed you will.’

  And Kit wept, not at being deemed sinful, for she did not know what sin was, but for the supposed loss of her brother.

  * * *

  However, to Kit’s great joy, a month later to coincide with bud burst, a newly matured Monty – one with grand gestures and a confident manner – was to burst through the door on a rain-lashed Saturday afternoon, presenting his mother with a fistful of coins that was sufficient advertisement of new-found labour.

  ‘Had to travel ’cross watter to get it but it were well worth the journey! Yes, indeed, well worth it.’ A glint of satisfaction in his eye, he bashed his cap over his palm, sending droplets of rain on to the stone floor, then hung this and his jacket on a hook near the fireplace, adding cheerfully to the passive figure who sat by the hearth. ‘Good day to you, Father!’

  Flour in his auburn hair and still dressed in his working smock and gaiters, Richard regarded him quizzically for a moment, then pointedly ignored him to attend to more important things than this lackadaisical youth who assumed the air of prodigal son but in truth was not worth a candle. Horny-nailed fingers grappled with an earthenware flagon, lifting it from a shelf and transferring a measure of the cider within to a mug already laced with ginger. A drink brewed from “God’s good apples” could never be adjudged sinful. Kit watched as her father removed a red-hot iron from the grate and plunged it into the pot, the resultant frothing and hissing making her giggle and clap her hands.

  ‘Zuppose you be wanting a drop too?’

  ‘Why, thank ’ee kindly.’ Monty knew the query to be directed at him; it could not be addressed at anyone else, such was the tone of its indifference.

  With a sigh Richard temporarily raised his large body from the chair to reach for another mug, whilst instructing one of his daughters to bring more ginger, then with no great enthusiasm handed the steaming vessel to his son.

  As yet unseated, his tall frame having to stoop in order to avoid impaling his head on the various hooks that dangled from the low-beamed ceiling, a grateful Monty tilted his mug, feeling the ginger hit the back of his throat. Then, after a lick of his lips, and with Kit at his side, he told the family how, with no work forthcoming in the local vicinity, he had taken the ferry across the Severn into Monmouthshire and had immediately gained employment in a small coal-mining community. ‘So I reckon I’ll bide there for a twelvemonth – or longer if my bond’s renewed – if that’s to yur likin’.’ As was his lifelong habit he directed all queries at his mother. There might be friction between them but it sprang from a base of genuine affection. His father rarely argued with him – never argued with anyone – just held his opponent in contempt. In fact his father abhorred emotion of any kind; even his punishments were administered with calm deliberation.

  ‘You think I mind if you take that filthy coal dust into somebody else’s house?’ Beata gave a sharp laugh and examined her son’s clothes for a hint of grime, of which there was none, save for that lodged deep in his skin. ‘So long as you’re not paying too much for rent. But pray tell who’s scrubbing your back now?’

  Monty chose not to answer the latter query, replying confidently, ‘Oh no! Just a few pence for a bed and a bite to eat.’ He took a quick gulp of the cider, somewhat discomforted by his father’s narrow-eyed stare. ‘They’re decent folk, very decent. I made a lot o’ friends already.’

  Beata was unconcerned with these new acquaintances, only that her son was contributing to the family’s income again. ‘Well, just make sure you don’t let this job slip.’

  ‘Oh, that I will! I learned my lesson, Mam. I don’t want to lose such a good place.’ And that’s a fact, thought Monty, who had no intention of coming back here to slave his life away just for his mother to take every penny of his wage and his father to display such ingratitude. ‘No, I’ll do as I’m bidden from now on.’

  A faint breath of scorn emerged from his father whose eyes remained fixed on the coals.

  ‘Mm.’ Beata sounded doubtful too, but as the coins chinked through her fingers she began to smile and even made a joke. ‘Biss thee fetching this amount home every month? ’Pon my word, yur father an’ me can soon retire! Bide thee here and take sup with us.’

  Monty developed a sudden nervous tic. Beneath the facade of the homecoming hero, the more perspicacious amongst them glimpsed the callowness of a nineteen-year-old, unsure of his place in the world. He sat at the table, auburn head lowered whilst grace was said, and afterwards partook heartily of the special weekly ration of boiled bacon, bread and butter, with shortcake to follow, inwardly grateful that no conversation was permitted during meals.

  The rest of the Kilmasters gathered round, only those who earned their living being allowed to have a chair. For Kit, bursting to speak to her favourite family member, the meal was a trial, especially as her father seemed to take much longer than usual to consume it, chewing his bacon in thoughtful examination of his elder son whose freckled cheeks reddened under the scrutiny and who wolfed down his own meal as if it would be his last.

  After tea, the
children were granted free rein to question Monty who, still pinioned by his father’s gimlet eye, babbled uncontrollably until birdsong eventually gave way to the croak of amphibia from the pond on the common.

  ‘Han’t you better be on your way?’ asked his mother, lighting candles and closing the curtains – two pieces of dimity nailed above the window and draped inelegantly on either side by means of hooks. ‘Long road to travel if you want to be back in time for work on Monday, and best go while the rain’s eased. Here, I’ll get ’ee a lantern.’

  Nostrils tingling with the scent of newly ignited candlewax, Monty shot to his feet and reached for his cap and jacket. ‘Oh er, I suppose I better had be off.’

  Kit, until now perched on a piece of sacking on the bare floor, sprang up with a wail.

  ‘Hush! You’ll see him again. Be making your visit once a month, will ’ee, Monty?’ asked Beata, her mood buoyed by the donation of cash. ‘Though, faith, you’re welcome any time if you bring gurt handfuls o’ silver like that.’ She chuckled gaily and threw her shawl around her shoulders to ward off the night-time chill that was trickling between the planks of the door, her action setting the candle flames guttering.

  Her son shifted uncomfortably in his still-damp breeches, his blue eyes those of a man destined for execution. ‘Well, er, I might not be seeing so much o’ ’ee in future – I’m getting wed, you see!’

  ‘I knowed it!’ barked Richard, to whom the glint in his son’s eye had been instantly recognizable, which is why he had been watching him so relentlessly, awaiting the confession. ‘I knowed dang well he were hiding zommat!’

  Beata was at first speechless, then furious, abandoning her search for the lantern. ‘You selfish little – out! Get ’ee gone from this house!’ She dealt her son a hefty shove towards the door, which was swiftly opened by one of the girls. ‘Leading us on like that! All these years I been slaving after you, and another woman gets the benefit! How we goin’ feed these children without yur wage? Tell me that!’ She poked Monty in the chest, ignoring Kit’s tears, as he backed through the doorway, his red cheeks clashing with his hair.