Another Man's Child Read online

  Cath did not answer but led the way into the scullery and out into the yard. She opened the back gate and would have pushed Molly May through it unceremoniously if she hadn’t resisted. ‘I do need the lavatory,’ she said in as dignified a manner as she could. ‘So if you don’t mind…?’

  Cath shrugged. ‘I’ll leave you to it then. But don’t look back and keep on going. I wouldn’t even go back to your rooms if I were you. That’s the first place Ma’ll look.’

  ‘Why are you doing this really?’ she said, puzzled. ‘You’re able to stick up for yourself. I can’t see why my being here would make that much difference to you.’

  Cath flashed her a smile. ‘I never could stand the way Ma treated our Frank, as if he was a little prince. The last thing I want is his brat lording it over us like he did. Tarrah!’ And with that she went back up the yard.

  Molly May was surprised to hear Cath had felt like that about her own brother but did not linger to discuss it. Instead she hurried to her lodgings near the Diamond Match Works opposite the Methodist Mission, where she speedily packed her few worldly goods. The furniture had come with the room so it was no hardship to leave that behind. Soon she was walking in the direction of Litherland Road and the Leeds–Liverpool canal. With any luck Jack Fletcher would be at the Linacre depot already. He would need to go into Liverpool to unload the rest of his cargo but she did not mind that. Once aboard she would feel safe from Ma Payne.

  ‘Thee all right, Molly May?’ Jack Fletcher sounded concerned for her.

  A happy smile warmed her elfin features as she gazed down at him from her perch on the cabin roof. ‘Better than I was.’

  She thought how nice it was to have a man caring for her again, even if this one wasn’t Frank and old enough to be her father. Jack wore the heavy dark blue seaman’s gansy and khaki corduroys of the canal boatman. His big feet were shod in thick woolly socks and brass-buckled clogs, and on his greying hair was a cap which served to protect him from rain and sleet or to keep the sun out of his eyes. Nanna said he had once been in love with Molly May’s mother and would still have had her after she was widowed if he hadn’t already married another bargee’s daughter who’d inherited her father’s boat.

  Molly watched him carefully steer his way past a muck barge carrying night dirt and horse manure from Liverpool to sell to Lancashire farmers, her small tip-tilted nose wrinkled in distaste. It was pulled by a horse, as was the Bradford flyer with its load of cotton they had passed earlier.

  ‘Soon be there,’ said Jack.

  The words were sweet in her ears. Relief swamped her anxiety and grief like a flood. She glanced up at the sky. The rain had cleared and ribbons of silver-grey cloud hung as if suspended by invisible wires against a pale blue sky. To either side of the canal there were green fields and every now and again birds flew across with bits of twig or moss in their beaks. Hard to believe Frank really was dead. That the bottom had dropped out of her world on such a beautiful day. She longed for Nanna, to be held close to her soft bosom and comforted with kind words and buttered scones.

  ‘Are thee coming down?’ Jack said to her as one of his sons emerged from the cabin.

  ‘Aye,’ she said, accepting Rob’s hand as he helped her from her perch on the roof.

  ‘I hope thee finds the old woman fit,’ said Jack. ‘I haven’t seen her awhile. I’ll drop thee off at the Packet House. Thee won’t have far to walk then.’

  She thanked him and her soft lips brushed his weatherbeaten cheek.

  ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you, Uncle Jack,’ she said warmly.

  ‘It was nowt, lass.’ His face had turned brick red. ‘Thee look after theeself now.’

  Molly May waved to father and son as she paused on the bank a moment, then made her way up to the red brick Packet House Inn. A brisk wind had risen, fluttering her skirts and teasing the fringes of her shawl. She settled the latter more securely about her shoulders and walked on in the direction of Orrell Lane. According to Nanna it had once been called Gobbins Lane and as a child Molly May had imagined goblins living there. Every All Hallows Eve she’d pictured them coming back to haunt the place and had thrilled deliciously to her own imaginings.

  Children were playing out with hoops and skipping ropes. One or two cast a glance in her direction and she found herself imagining her own child skipping to school. The heaviness at her heart lightened a little. She passed the grocery store, hoping Nanna had plenty of food in.

  At last she came to the house and to her surprise found the blinds drawn. Her heart began to beat unevenly as she pushed open the gate, hesitating a moment before sounding the black-painted wrought-iron knocker.

  Almost immediately a neighbouring door opened and a plump, middle-aged woman looked out at her. ‘Thee’s not going to get an answer there, lass. Hasn’t thee heard?’

  Molly May stared at her, wide-eyed. ‘Heard what?’

  The woman hesitated only briefly. ‘There’s no easy way of saying this – Mrs Fletcher’s dead.’

  Molly May’s heart felt as if it had slipped its moorings to settle like a lump of lead in the pit of her stomach. ‘Dead!’ She could not believe it and had to put one hand on the wall to steady herself.

  The woman’s eyes were sympathetic. ‘Aye. She’s still up there on her bed. We’re not sure when the funeral’s to be. The vicar was going to get in touch with you.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t,’ said Molly May indignantly, feeling a sudden need to sit down. What a shock! She inserted one hand through the letter box, found the string and pulled the key out to open the door. Oh, Lord! What am I going to do now? she thought.

  ‘Do you want me to come in with you?’

  She nodded, thinking: Of course I do. ‘It’s Mrs Smith, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye.’ The neighbour smiled. ‘Fancy you remembering. I never thought you took much notice of me. You’ll be able to stay here a few days for the funeral and that, if you want? I know the rent’s paid ’til the end of the week.’

  ‘I’d planned on staying longer than that,’ said Molly May, voice shaking. ‘Poor Nanna. Do you know if there’s any food in the house?’

  ‘Not much, lass. You fancying? I’ve just done a baking so I could let you have a loaf.’

  ‘That’s kind of you.’ She smiled gratefully and went through to the kitchen. Immediately her eyes sought out the rocking chair with its knitted cushion set to one side of the black-leaded grate and her eyes filled with tears, remembering the times Nanna had sat there making some garment or other for her while she herself embroidered cushion covers, chairback covers, or did some fine smocking for the ladies round about.

  ‘Must have gone in her sleep.’ Mrs Smith was busying herself with the makings of the fire. ‘Seeth thee down, lass,’ she said, lapsing into Lancashire dialect. ‘How long before thy baby’s due?’

  Molly did not answer but lowered herself carefully on to the rocking chair. She felt dizzy all of a sudden. ‘Jack Fletcher… He doesn’t know about Nanna. We’ll have to get in touch but it’ll need to wait until tomorrow now. He’ll have left the Bridge.’

  ‘Don’t you be worrying. If it’s too much for you, the Reverend Russell will arrange things.’

  ‘You think?’ The girl’s eyes closed and she slumped back in the chair, feet neatly together on the rag rug. Then she sat upright. ‘Nanna… she… she was in the burial club?’

  ‘Aye. That’s one thing you don’t have to worry about, lass.’

  ‘Marvellous!’ Molly May’s laugh was hollow and tears filled her eyes. She searched for the scrap of embroidered linen up her sleeve, scrubbing her face with it before blowing her nose. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘Only I’ve just lost my husband at sea and what with this on top and worrying about the baby, I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  ‘You poor thing!’ Mrs Smith’s wrinkled face was full of sympathy. ‘You don’t look much more than a child yourself.’ She struck a match and a tongue of flame ran along t
he edge of the newspaper, weaving in and out of the kindling and sending narrow twists of smoke up the chimney.

  Molly May watched, mesmerised, waiting for the whole lot to burst into glorious flame. She began to undo her boots, kicking them off and stretching out her toes to the warmth. ‘That’s lovely. Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ The woman got to her feet, rubbing her knees. ‘I’ll go and get that loaf.’

  ‘Thanks again.’ Molly May continued to gaze at the fire, reluctant to move. Although she knew she must go upstairs and view the body. She was feeling nervous, worrying about breaking down. She was apprehensive about lots of things: arranging the funeral, the birth of her baby. She wondered what would happen to it should she die? Lord, she couldn’t bear thinking about it! She stifled the thought quickly, telling herself it was not going to happen.

  * * *

  ‘You’re looking a bit pale round the gills.’ Molly May’s Good Samaritan gazed at her in concern as she placed a tray of jam butties and a steaming cup of tea on a stool next to her. ‘Have you been up yet?’

  The girl shook her head and sipped the tea, the colour slowly seeping back into her face. ‘I’m Molly Payne really. Mam and my stepfather used to give me my full title because I was a May and not a Shaw like them. It’s a bit childish. Perhaps I should drop it now I’m a widow?’

  The neighbour smiled and said teasingly, ‘Right you are, Mrs Payne.’ Then her smile faded. ‘Sad about your man and the old woman. No wonder you’re upset.’

  Molly agreed, before taking a large bite of bread and jam. Not as good as one of Nanna’s scones but delicious all the same. ‘I was planning on living with Nanna,’ she said sadly. ‘I feel guilty about not being here when she died, but what with getting married and setting up home, I just didn’t have time. Now it’s too late. Too late,’ she repeated. ‘Aren’t they the saddest words in the English language?’

  Mrs Smith sat opposite her, clasping her hands in the lap of her pinafore. ‘If you have enough to pay the rent for a few weeks, you could stay on here. You never know, something might turn up.’

  Molly sighed. ‘I’ve only a few bob. Nanna and Mother always saw to the housekeeping so I’ve never been very good with money. I’ve hardly anything for the baby either.’

  ‘If I were you I’d look in that big chest of drawers in Mrs Fletcher’s room,’ said Mrs

  Smith, nodding sagely. ‘She was always knitting.’

  Molly’s expression brightened. ‘It would be just like her to have made a whole layette.’

  ‘There you are then! Go up and have a peek. Perhaps you’d like me to come up with you?’

  ‘Yes. It would be best for me to get it over with.’ Molly swallowed the last of her bread and jam and stood up.

  As they climbed the linoleum-covered stairs her heart was pounding. It made her feel even more peculiar than she already felt. There was a peculiar kind of stretching pain beneath her bump and an aching sensation in her lower back as if she was about to start her monthlies. Surely, surely, it couldn’t be the baby? No! Not now! It was much too early.

  They entered the front bedroom where a large iron bedstead stood against one wall. On top of the knitted multicoloured bedspread lay a still figure dressed in a red flannelette nightgown. ‘Right stuck on red she was,’ said Mrs Smith, going over to the bed to gaze down at the corpse. ‘I looked for white but she didn’t have any.’

  ‘She believed red was warmer.’ But it wasn’t going to keep her warm in the grave, thought Molly, mouth quivering as she gazed down at the well-loved face.

  ‘She had a good innings.’ Mrs Smith smoothed a strand of hair on the corpse’s head. ‘Will you be all right here on your own? Only I’ve a hotpot on and I want to see it’s all right.’

  ‘Of course,’ Molly said brightly, asking herself what there was to be scared of. Nanna had loved her in life so it was hardly likely she would hurt her in death, even if she could have got off that bed and haunted her like one of Dickens’s ghosts. Gingerly, she sat on the wooden chair by the bedside, remembering the many things she had shared with the old woman.

  It was Nanna who’d dressed her in her Sunday best for St John’s Walking Day. A brass band had played and Molly had felt fit to burst with pride, walking along with the other girls. Then there were trips to the Thursday market at Ormskirk during the school holidays, and once they’d travelled with lots of other people to Preston during Guild Week. She recalled picnics on the canal bank, trips on barges and walks to Burscough Priory ruins. She thanked God for Nanna’s generosity of spirit and, no longer fearful of the dead, pressed her lips lightly against the wrinkled cheek before going over to the chest of drawers in the corner and pulling out one drawer after another.

  It was as Mrs Smith said. In the bottom one there was a small pile of matinee coats, bootees and bonnets, as well as a cobweb shawl of the purest, softest three-ply wool. She held the latter against her cheek, her eyes damp. She should have come before. Forcing down the grief which threatened to engulf her, she placed the tiny garments back in the drawer. Then she looked down at Nanna again before leaving the room.

  The bedroom which had once been Molly’s was not very big and she needed to squeeze past the foot of the bed to reach the window. A shaft of sunlight fell on the Wellington lockstitch sewing machine, made in Oldham. Her mother had sewed curtains and covers and clothes on this, never allowing Molly near it for fear she might break it. Pity, thought the girl. It could have been useful now, knowing how to sew.

  She left the room to go downstairs and finish her bread and jam, conscious of that ache in the small of her back once more. She told herself not to worry. It was probably the bending down or that lousy bed in Ma Payne’s. Just thinking of it made her itch and she scratched her arm, then her neck, hoping she hadn’t caught a flea. At least she had escaped Ma’s clutches, she thought, biting into the bread and jam again. Then despair took hold of her as she thought of Frank and the forthcoming birth.

  She forced the scary thoughts away, and placing her hands on the wooden arms of the rocking chair, pushed herself up to kneel on the rag rug and place more coal on the fire. She felt another twinge of pain and her teeth caught on her lower lip. The pain ebbed. She must move more carefully. She probably just needed rest after rushing from one place to another. She levered herself up using the chair and went upstairs, hesitating outside Nanna’s room before going into her own.

  Molly removed the woollen skirt and the well-worn braided velour jacket Frank had brought her home from his last trip. In the high-necked blouse she had embroidered with flowers and her tie-waist drawers, she eased her bulk beneath the blankets. The pillow was of feathers and so was the mattress which enveloped her. She wriggled around, imagining how warm and safe a cygnet must feel beneath its mother’s wings. Comfortable now she closed her eyes. A stillness settled over the room but she could not ignore the ache in her heart nor the one in her belly. It seemed to ebb and flow as she drifted on the borders of sleep, wondering how she was going to cope. She had to find someone to help her.

  It was a long drawn out pain which brought Molly back into a shocked awareness of her surroundings. For a moment she could not think where she was. The room was dark and she felt frightened. Instinctively both her hands cradled her belly. Oh, God, that hurt! She sat bolt upright, stiff with fear.

  The pain eased and her head flopped back against the pillow. She lay for a few minutes recovering, hoping it was a false alarm. Then it returned, slamming into her with the force of a sledgehammer. She gasped and sat up again, clutching the wooden post of the bedhead, breathing hurriedly. Then the contraction passed and she sank back against the pillow, sweating and trembling. ‘This isn’t nice. If I didn’t know better I might believe Ma Payne had put a curse on me,’ she said aloud, trying to make light of the situation.

  She forced herself up and rolled off the bed, feeling a trickle of moisture down her leg. She tensed, trying to hold the water in, but it was no use. When the pain returned wit
h what felt like double the force, she screamed, gripping the foot of the bed. Why did Nanna have to die? She should have been here to help. Now Molly was going to have to help herself.

  The pain subsided slowly and for a few moments she was able to breathe deeply – in, out, in, out – trying to get as much air into her lungs as she could. But she ended up feeling dizzy.

  ‘Oh, Lord, help me,’ she whispered, wanting to believe it was possible that an angel would appear and magically help her to have a painless birth. Of course it didn’t happen and she’d only managed to reach the door when she felt another contraction. She clung to the door jamb and screamed and screamed.

  There was a thudding of feet on the stairs and Mrs Smith appeared on the landing with another woman. ‘Oh, dear. Oh, dear,’ muttered Molly’s neighbour. ‘I thought you were closer than you said. It’s a good job you’ve a healthy pair of lungs.’

  Molly said in a faint voice, ‘I need a midwife.’

  ‘You’re in luck, lass. This is my sister-in- law and she’s had eight of her own. She knows what to do. Isn’t that right, Em?’ Mrs Smith turned to the woman next to her.

  ‘Thee knows it is.’ Em’s eyes were scanning the room behind Molly. She had a rawboned look about her and the girl noticed her large hands. ‘Have to get the lass out of there. Too small. What about the front room?’

  ‘Have you forgotten?’ whispered Mrs Smith, nudging her. ‘The old lady’s laid out there.’

  ‘The other one?’

  ‘Full of junk. No bed.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing furrit,’ said Em cheerfully. ‘We’ll have to move the old woman out. She won’t mind.’

  Mrs Smith looked uneasy but her sister- in-law seized hold of her arm and the next moment they’d vanished into the front room.

  Molly couldn’t believe it. Moving Nanna off her bed with no coffin to go into didn’t seem right, but she doubted Em would take any notice of her objections. Anyway when the pain came again she would not have cared if they’d laid Nanna outside alongside her and she’d given birth in the lane with the whole neighbourhood watching. Just so long as she could get it over with. The two women came out of the front room carrying Nanna’s body in the multicoloured bedspread. ‘Where are you putting her?’ gasped Molly.