Mud and Gold Read online

  Mrs Coulson snorted. ‘A funny sort of holiday, having a baby. I’ll miss you, dear—you and that pretty little boy.’

  ‘I’ll miss you, too.’

  ‘You’ll have to come and see me, and bring the children, too. I like to keep an eye on the babies I bring into the world. I’ve hardly seen you since young Malcolm was born.’

  ‘I’d like to, but it’s hard. I don’t really get out of the house much, except church and sometimes Charlie brings me in to do the shopping with him. I don’t even see Lizzie much, now she’s got Maudie and it’s not so easy for her to ride over. Charlie doesn’t like me to…’ She could not bring herself to say ‘wander’. ‘To go out by myself,’ she finished awkwardly. ‘I’m allowed to go to Pa’s sometimes, but that’s about all. I’ll see if he’ll drop me off with the children one shopping day.’

  ‘That would be nice, dear,’ Mrs Coulson said. ‘I shouldn’t think he’d mind that.’

  ‘I expect I’ll be back to stay with you before too long,’ Amy said, trying to make her voice light. ‘This is my life now—a baby every other year. I seem to get with child pretty easily. I wish I didn’t get so worn out having them, though.’ She frowned in thought. ‘Mrs Coulson, how long do women keep on having babies for? When are they too old?’

  ‘The change of life usually comes when you’re not much over forty. Sometimes a bit later—I knew a woman once who had a baby when she was forty-six.’

  ‘Forty-six,’ Amy echoed. ‘I’m eighteen now. I could keep on having babies for nearly thirty years. That’s another fifteen babies—even more if I have them closer than two years. There’s only twenty-one months between Mal and Davie. Fifteen babies!’ The very thought was overwhelming. ‘But women don’t really have seventeen or eighteen children—well, not usually, anyway. Why don’t they?’

  Mrs Coulson was silent for some time, as if choosing her words carefully. ‘There are ways of slowing the babies down a bit,’ she said at last. ‘A girl’s mother usually tells her about it after she’s been married a few years. Of course it works better for some women than others.’

  ‘How? How do you slow them down? Please, Mrs Coulson, I don’t want to have twenty children.’

  ‘You’d never live to bear them,’ Mrs Coulson said quietly. ‘I’m sorry, dear, I shouldn’t have said that. Take no notice of my ramblings.’

  ‘Please tell me how to slow the babies down,’ Amy begged.

  She wondered why Mrs Coulson looked so sad. ‘You really want to know?’ the nurse asked. Amy nodded her head vigorously. Mrs Coulson sighed. ‘Well, I’ll tell you, for what it’s worth. You see, my dear, women aren’t fruitful all the time. Only around the middle of the time between each lot of bleeding, for a week or so—no one seems to know exactly how long. So if your husband leaves you alone for that week or two every month then you don’t get with child, or at least you’re less likely to.’ She smiled ruefully at Amy. ‘It doesn’t seem so much to ask, does it, darling?’

  ‘I see,’ Amy said in a small voice. ‘I thought maybe it was something a woman could do by herself. Thank you for explaining it to me.’ A baby every other year for the next thirty years. Except I won’t live to bear them. ‘I think I’ll have a lie-down till dinner time. I feel like being by myself for a little while.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ Mrs Coulson said. ‘You have a nice rest. I’ll keep an eye on the little fellow.’ She watched Amy walking a little unsteadily out of the room, and knew it was because the girl’s eyes were blinded with tears.

  Why ever had they made that poor girl marry a man like Charlie Stewart? Mrs Coulson asked herself. That stepmother of hers must have taken a terrible dislike to the girl—though just how anyone could dislike that sweet little thing was beyond her—and had moved heaven and earth to get her out of the house. Jack Leith should have had more sense than to let himself be talked into such a dreadful mismatch, but perhaps he had been too besotted with his young wife to see what was going on.

  But how on earth had they talked Amy into it? Mrs Coulson had counted on her fingers enough times to know that Malcolm had been born nine months after the wedding, so he certainly hadn’t been the cause of it. And anyway, how would Charlie have got Amy to lie with him without putting a ring on her finger first, short of raping her?

  All that talk about the terrible things the poor girl thought she had done, that must be the clue. Susannah Leith must have somehow convinced her that she had to marry Charlie, almost as some sort of punishment. Charlie would have been only too pleased to grasp the rich prize offered him. And yet, from what the girl said he was not at all grateful for his stroke of luck in getting such a wife.

  Mrs Coulson shook her head. It was none of her business, and she had no right to be puzzling over Amy’s private life. It was foolish of her, too, to get so attached to the girl. But she was such an affectionate little thing, so pathetically grateful for the tiniest kindness, that it was impossible not to love her. She was certainly not the first young mother Mrs Coulson had seen who had a bad-tempered husband, nor the first to show the marks of old blows. But Mrs Coulson had never seen a girl so frightened of her husband, a husband more than old enough to be her father. This was not some empty-headed girl going into marriage full of romantic notions that the cold reality of cooking, cleaning and child-bearing soon knocked out of her. The girl had obviously never had the least desire to marry that man, except to please other people. And now she was breaking her little heart trying to make him happy so that he might show her some sign of affection. That, Mrs Coulson thought grimly, assumed the man had a heart to feel affection with.

  When Charlie left the bedroom after his visit the next day, Mrs Coulson intercepted him before he reached the front door.

  ‘Mr Stewart, could I speak to you for a moment?’ she asked, careful to sound very polite as she ushered him into her parlour. She sat him down in her best armchair and gathered her thoughts.

  ‘I wanted to have a word with you about your wife. I’m a little worried about her.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  Was that concern in his voice or just irritation? Mrs Coulson wondered. ‘Having this baby has been hard on her. She had a difficult time of it with young Malcolm, too. I’m afraid I was rather remiss back then not to explain that to you. I want to be sure you understand it this time.’

  ‘She looks all right,’ Charlie said dubiously. ‘Has she been playing up for you? I’ll have a word with her.’

  He made to rise, but Mrs Coulson put out a hand to stop him. ‘There’s no need for that. She certainly hasn’t been “playing up”. She’s as good a patient as I could wish, and I’ll miss her when she goes home. She’s simply not very well, however she might look. Mr Stewart, your wife will be rather delicate for a few months.’

  ‘Delicate? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means you’ll have to be patient with her for a while. You might find she’s inclined to get fits of weeping, that sort of thing. Childbearing takes some women like that.’

  ‘I’ll soon knock that nonsense out of her. I’ll not put up with that sort of rubbish.’

  ‘She won’t be able to help herself, Mr Stewart,’ Mrs Coulson said, wishing she could shake some sense into the stupid man. ‘You won’t help her by being harsh. You won’t help yourself either,’ she added, willing him to understand. But there was no hint of comprehension in his face.

  ‘You’re saying I should be soft on her. Let her get away with her nonsense, instead of correcting her when she plays up.’

  ‘I’m saying the poor girl needs a rest. She needs to get her strength back before you expect too much of her. Mr Stewart, I’m a nurse, and you must excuse me if I say things that might offend you. She needs to get her strength back before she’ll be ready to do her duty as a wife.’

  Charlie’s eyes narrowed, and she saw a red tinge mount in his face. ‘She put you up to this, didn’t she?’ he said in a low growl.

  Mrs Coulson struggled to m
aintain her composure. ‘She did no such thing. The girl would be terribly upset if she knew I was speaking to you like this.’

  Charlie went on as if she had not spoken. ‘That little bitch with her airs and graces talked you into this. She’ll not get away with trying to make a fool of me. I know my rights, and she’ll do as I say. She can just try moaning to me—I’ll show her what her duty is. I’ll show her what happens if she tries to get out of it.’

  Mrs Coulson felt her self-control slipping away as he spoke. ‘Mr Stewart, you are the luckiest man alive to have a wife like that girl. If you were to show her just the smallest bit of kindness—just the tiniest bit of affection—she’d cling to you as if you were the most wonderful man in the world. Instead you make her shrink from you. You’re so busy thinking about your rights that you’re missing out on the best chance of happiness this world’s ever going to show you.’

  Charlie rose from his chair. ‘You’re a nurse. It’s your job to get her well enough so she can come home and start doing her duty again. Beyond that, it’s none of your affair. I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my business.’ He walked towards the door.

  ‘Mr Stewart,’ Mrs Coulson called sharply. Charlie turned in the doorway. ‘You’re a fool, Mr Stewart. And one day you’ll see it for yourself, if you live long enough to learn any sense. The trouble is, by the time you do it might be too late. Too late for you and for that poor girl.’ The slamming of her front door was the only reply Charlie gave.

  12

  December 1887 – January 1888

  Amy smiled back at the baby chortling on her lap.

  ‘Not sleepy yet, Davie? Never mind, it’s better if you’re awake now, as long as you sleep well tonight.’

  Not that that was usually a problem with David. At four months old he had already been sleeping through the night for weeks, much to Amy’s relief. He seemed content to sleep most of the time. He woke when he was hungry, fed eagerly, then gurgled to himself until he dropped off to sleep again. Charlie could not complain about a baby who hardly ever seemed to cry.

  ‘You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Davie.’ David gave her a toothless grin. She hugged him, then put him down on the cradle mattress, which she had brought out to the kitchen. She raised the pillow a little so he could see her as she moved about the room.

  ‘Mama.’ She heard Malcolm call out in the high-pitched voice that managed to sound imperious for all its childish tones. ‘Mama!’

  Amy crossed the passage into Malcolm’s bedroom, where she had tucked him in for his afternoon sleep only half an hour before. ‘What do you want, Mal? You’re meant to be asleep, you know.’

  ‘Don’t want to.’

  ‘Aren’t you sleepy?’ Malcolm shook his head. Amy studied his face, the lower lip thrust well out as he gave his mother a sideways look. She sighed. ‘I’ll let you get up, then, but you have to be good. If you go getting grumpy you’ll go straight back to bed. All right? Will you be good?’

  ‘Yes!’ Malcolm said.

  He looked so little in a real bed, after being in a cradle for so long. When Amy had come home from Mrs Coulson’s, Malcolm had been moved into the cottage’s other bedroom, giving up his cradle to his baby brother. It had come as something of a relief to have Malcolm in his own room; it would not have been much longer before he was old enough to take far too much notice of what his parents were doing in the big bed.

  Amy took off his napkin (Malcolm only needed them for sleeping now), praising him over its dryness, and dressed him, then took him out to the kitchen. A mug of milk and some biscuits kept him amused for a few minutes while she got on with her work, then she sat him in one corner with a pile of old newspapers that had been destined to do service as toilet paper, which he busily ripped to shreds.

  When David whimpered, Amy stopped work and lifted him from the mattress to feed him. Malcolm left his newspaper ripping to stand close to them. She reached out and stroked down an unruly tuft of red hair.

  ‘Do you want a cuddle, Mal?’ She slipped her free arm around him. ‘I can fit you on my lap, too.’ Malcolm squirmed out of her embrace and took a step backwards. ‘No? You’re not much on cuddles, are you? You’re like your Papa.’

  Malcolm returned to his newspapers, but when he had finished making a mess with them he looked up at Amy. ‘Play, Mama.’

  ‘I can’t, Mal. I’m feeding Davie, then I’ve got to finish cooking, then Papa will be here and it’ll be time to have dinner. Wait a minute and I’ll get you some more papers.’

  ‘Don’t want them. You play!’

  ‘Malcolm, don’t be naughty or you’ll have to go back to bed.’

  ‘He don’t go to bed,’ Malcolm said, glaring at David in Amy’s arms.

  ‘Davie’s just a little baby, Mal. He sleeps lots and lots.’

  ‘Stupid baby.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Amy soothed. ‘He’s your brother. You’ll be able to play with him when he gets bigger.’

  ‘He too little,’ Malcolm said.

  ‘He’ll grow up. You’ll see, you’ll like playing with him soon.’ Malcolm gave her a dubious look. Amy laughed at his expression. ‘I think you’re a bit j-e-a-l-o-u-s. All right, then, I’ll play with you for a bit when Davie’s finished having a drink.’

  When the baby stopped suckling she put him back on the mattress, then knelt on the floor with Malcolm. She lifted a sheet of paper that Malcolm had missed ripping, and thought back to games she and Lizzie had played as children.

  ‘Wait a minute, Mal, I’ll fetch my scissors.’

  She picked a blunt pair out of her sewing box and sat down on the floor again. ‘Look at this.’ She carefully folded the sheet concertina-wise and cut a pattern into it. When she unfolded the paper a row of dolls holding hands was revealed.

  Malcolm exclaimed with pleasure and made a grab at the dolls. ‘Me!’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes, they’re for you. Don’t rip them too fast.’

  Malcolm waved the row of dolls for a few minutes while Amy quickly finished mixing up a pudding and slipped it into the range. He dropped the paper, walked over to Amy and tugged at her apron. ‘Horsies, Mama.’

  ‘What about them? What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Horsies!’ Malcolm repeated, tugging harder at her apron and scowling at her lack of understanding. ‘Make horsies.’

  ‘Oh. I’m not sure if I can do horsies, Mal. I’ll have a go.’ She folded another sheet and looked at it, trying to visualize a horse-shaped outline, then cut out a form as horse-like as she could manage. ‘How’s that?’ she asked doubtfully as she unfolded the result.

  ‘Horsies!’ Malcolm cried in delight. He dragged the trail of paper horses around the kitchen, making a clicking sound with his tongue as he did; imitating the noise his father made to gee-up the horses, Amy knew.

  He was crawling under the table, still clutching his now bedraggled horses, when Charlie came into the house for dinner.

  ‘Horsies, Papa,’ Malcolm said, waving them at his father as he wrapped one arm around Charlie’s leg.

  ‘What’s he on about?’ Charlie asked. He freed himself from Malcolm’s grasp and sat down at the table.

  ‘Horses. I made him some paper horses to play with.’

  Charlie peered doubtfully at Malcolm’s toy. ‘Are those horses?’

  ‘Well, he thinks they are. They’ve kept him entertained while I was busy, anyway.’

  ‘He hasn’t been playing up, has he?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Amy said hastily. ‘He’s been very good, really.’ She had no intention of mentioning Malcolm’s refusal to finish his afternoon sleep. ‘He does get a bit bored, though, with just me to talk to. It’ll be better in a year or two when Davie can play with him. Come on, Mal, sit up at the table now.’ She lifted him bodily and placed him on the chair at her right hand before he could argue.

  ‘He’s growing up,’ Charlie said, watching Malcolm as Amy served the meal. ‘He’s two now, isn’t he?’

  ‘Just over. He’s big
for his age, though.’

  ‘Time you started teaching him a few things. I don’t hold with bairns talking at the table.’

  ‘What?’ Amy looked up from encouraging Malcolm to hold his spoon properly. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s not the right way to bring them up,’ said Charlie. ‘When they’re wee babies it’s different, but once they’re old enough to know better they should keep silent at the table unless they’re spoken to.’

  ‘But Pa and Granny never—’ Amy stopped herself. Charlie had made his opinion of her upbringing clear far too many times. ‘I’ll try to remember that. Until they’re how old?’

  ‘About twelve, I’d say,’ Charlie said after some consideration.

  ‘I think Mal’s a little bit too young to understand that,’ Amy said carefully. ‘I mean, he’s only been saying more than two words joined together for a couple of months. It might confuse him if we say he’s not allowed to talk.’ She glanced at Malcolm, who was turning his attention from one to the other as his parents spoke, hearing his name but probably understanding little else.

  ‘Hmm. That’s maybe right. Leave it a bit longer, then. A few more months shouldn’t do any harm.’

  Malcolm was so quiet during the meal that Amy wondered if he had understood more of Charlie’s comments than she had thought. But it meant she did not have to worry about his saying anything Charlie might disapprove of.

  When she had dished up the pudding she lifted David onto her lap so he could watch the others at the table. ‘Davie’s starting to sleep a bit less,’ she told Charlie. ‘He takes notice of everything, too. Look at Papa, Davie,’ she prompted. David grinned and waved his arms at his father.

  ‘Aye, they’re fine boys, both of them,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ll have some more pudding.’

  Amy rose to take his plate and pile more custard pudding into it. When she took her seat again she noticed that Malcolm’s bowl was still half full. ‘Come on, Mal, eat up,’ she encouraged.