When the Bough Breaks (5 page)

‘Morning, Rufus,' she greeted him as, grunting, he ambled towards her. ‘Oh look at the mess you've left me. Call yourself a friend! You're a horror, yes you are.' But despite the unsavoury offerings he had left on the ground, she talked to him with affection and he seemed to understand. She wondered sometimes if perhaps he considered the messes he daily left for her to shovel up were his contribution to their friendship.

He grew fat just as they had planned when they'd agreed to keep a pig, but somehow she conveniently forgot (or pushed to the back of her mind) what lay ahead for him. Perhaps it had been a mistake to give him a name, but when she went into his sty and called, ‘Food time, Rufus', he never failed to answer with a grunt she could swear held appreciation.

Then came an evening when Den told her Rufus was being collected the next day and taken to the slaughterhouse.

‘I looked in at the butcher's on the way back from delivering the veg this afternoon and I've arranged that when the carcass is ready Bill Chapman will joint it up for us. Incredible, you know Kathie, there'll be pretty well nothing on it that can't be used. With the sty empty at the weekend we ought to give it a good spring-clean so we can get a replacement.'

She nodded, not answering.

‘Is something up, Kathie? You haven't got much to say.'

‘Sorry. I expect I'm tired.'

It wasn't like Kathie to admit to being tired but, come to think of it, it hadn't been like her to look peaky either. Or had it? When did he really
look
at her? She never gave herself a chance to relax; that was her trouble.

‘Tell you what, love – you go on up and get yourself an early night. I'll wash these dishes.'

She made an effort to pull her mind away from the pigsty where Rufus would have no idea he was spending his last night

‘Better still, we'll do the dishes together and both have an early night.' And the sudden smile she gave him made him think that perhaps she wasn't as tired as all that and an early night might be just what they needed.

Next morning the lorry came. Rufus sensed something was afoot and decided he wasn't going to walk up the loading plank; but he lost his battle and at last he was aboard. Kathie watched from the ‘warm room' window. When Den looked in to say Rufus had gone he found Kathie in floods of tears.

‘Hey, Kathie love, don't cry like that.'

She hadn't heard him coming.

‘He's such a nice pig,' she'd sobbed, ‘knew me, always came to meet me. I should have stopped him going. I came out to say please don't send him – but I couldn't. He had to go. That's why we had him. We're country people.' Her last words were almost swallowed in her sobs.

‘Hey, hey, love, this is the way we live. He won't know anything about it. Blow your nose and dry your eyes.'

She looked at him with eyes full of misery as she rubbed the palms of her work-hardened hands over her face.

‘If it's going to upset you like this we'd better not have another. You've got the tough part coming when I collect the meat from Bill Chapman.'

She'd nodded, holding her chin a little higher.

‘What sort of a wimp do you take me for? I've been making notes on all I have to do. It's all part of the job. 'Course I can do it.'

He probably surprised them both by giving her a sudden hug. ‘Good girl. And do we replace Rufus?'

She nodded. ‘Of course we do. I won't be so silly next time.'

And silently he vowed that next time he would send her on an errand to Deremouth or even Exeter to be sure that she would know nothing about it until the animal had been taken to the slaughterhouse.

As time went on there was no sign of the family they wanted, not even a few days of hope. Disappointment gave way to a dull sort of acceptance, something that seemed to hang between them like a shadow. It had never been in Kathie's nature to give way to depression; if things went wrong instead of crying about it she would decide on a plan to overcome the problem. But now she was faced with something outside her control. And did she imagine it or, as the early years went by, had something quenched the spontaneous passion in their relationship? In truth it probably had, but the reason was most likely to be simply that they had more work than time, sending them to bed aching in every joint and longing for the oblivion of sleep.

But it's
shared
work, she told herself, work that means the world to both of us. Westways is our life. They were neither of them ambitious for material things and even if they weren't prospering they had no real financial worries. It was early in 1928 that Dennis bought a van. No longer did he have to push his cart to the village greengrocer and, even more important, having transport meant he could take some of his more exotic produce as far afield as Deremouth. In August of that same year he engaged two fifteen-year-old boys, Bert Delbridge and Stanley Stone, both of them straight from school and good workers. Until then, attention to the cottage had had to be pushed into second place in their workload as they had both been needed on the land but the two lads were keen and Kathie was able to turn the place into a real home. It might lack riches, but never welcome or comfort.

The money Millicent had given Kathie had been put into a Post Office Savings Account to which, little by little, they had managed to add. They had permission from the landlord to extend the cottage, so they put the work into the hands of the local builder and decorator. Whenever possible Dennis acted as his labourer, doing anything he could to keep the cost down. The ‘warm room' lost the sink and became a dining room, albeit with a kitchen range, and beyond it Bob Geary built a small extension comprising a new kitchen and above it a bathroom. The small parlour had a ‘face lift' with new wallpaper and, bought at an auction sale, two easy chairs, a sofa and a small table. All the interior work they did themselves. In area the cottage wasn't very much bigger, but the difference it made to their living was enormous.

With the two boys helping Dennis, Kathie had more time for cooking too. She borrowed
Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management
from the one-evening-a-week lending library in a room behind the village hall; it became her bible. Into a thick exercise book she copied recipes and hints enough to make her a domestic treasure. Her shelves became packed with preserves, chutney, jams, mincemeat, pickled eggs and bottled fruit, peas and beans.

‘You're like a squirrel collecting nuts to hoard for the winter,' Dennis teased her when he came into the kitchen to find her standing on a chair lining up her pots of blackberry and apple jelly on the high shelf. But there was pride in his voice, whether entirely for her or partly in the knowledge that through the winter months they would still be eating food they had produced themselves – or, in the case of the blackberries, picked from the brambles in the lane. ‘They're collecting poor old Chummy tomorrow morning.' He went on as she climbed down from the chair, her latest array of jars lined up and neatly labelled: Green tomato chutney, 1929. The latest pig was Chummy, but as Dennis said it his mind went back to when Rufus, their first, had gone to the slaughterhouse. He could remember the scene so well. It was a long time since they had consciously looked at each other as they did now. He held her shoulders then gently drew her close. Minutes later she was ashamed at how easily she had been able to forget poor Chummy. As she raised her face to Dennis's, her lips parted and his mouth covered hers, not in the brief habitual kiss, but in a caress that told her nothing had changed between them. Only when he spoke did his words surprise her.

‘There never was much of you, but Kathie you've got really skinny. You work too hard.'

‘Silly! I'm peasant type; I'm not the sort to sit around. You should know that.'

‘Peasant type suits me fine. You deserve better than I give you though.'

‘Den, darling Den,' she said with a laugh that proved another change brought by the years: he had just told her tonight's supper would be Chummy's last and she had learnt to accept that this was how they lived. Had some of her spirit been crushed? When she answered he knew that her mind hadn't gone further than what he'd been saying. ‘What could be better that what we have here? I wouldn't change a thing.'

But even as she said it she knew it wasn't strictly true. After over six years of marriage they must surely accept they would never have children. Suppose the fault was with
him.
Suppose he couldn't make a woman pregnant. There were some men who couldn't; she had read an article about it on the medical page of a magazine she'd found on a side table in the library. Yet each month she believed she saw accusation in the way he looked at her. There's nothing wrong with
me
, again and again she told herself. What was it she had read in the article about a low sperm count? She almost wished she hadn't looked at the magazine. Now that she knew the trouble could be with the man as easily as with the woman it seemed to change how she felt when they made love. It still sometimes gave the same physical pleasure, but something really fundamental was lost. The change in her feelings was subtle; sometimes she was able to believe she imagined it.

She soon absorbed all she learned from Mrs Beeton. These days there was no need for her to get out her notebook and follow instructions on what to do with jointed Chummy. She could have written her own cookery book; she knew just how to cure hams and bacon, how to make good dishes from offal and how to make brawn. The only thing she rejected was the chitterlings – but Stanley Stone happily took them home, added to the chops she shared with both lads. She had learnt a good deal about the outside work, but her natural flair was in turning a house into a home, whether it was with the food she cooked, the way she arranged the greenery from the hedgerows, or the wild flowers when the season was right, or her knack of bringing a room to life with colourful cushion covers and draught excluders she made from scraps of remnants she bought for next to nothing.

Time is said to be the greatest healer and when her monthly disappointment arrived always on time it lost some of its power.

Then in the spring of 1933 the miracle happened. After nearly ten years of marriage she was pregnant. Her own fear that she was barren disappeared, as did her suspicion that Dennis was less of a man than he believed himself to be.

Her natural good health was given a boost by her feeling of inner joy. So through the early months of pregnancy Kathie thrived. The changes in her body were a source of excitement and pride, pride tinged with joy and thankfulness when she saw the way Dennis looked at her. Perhaps she would give him that army of sons after all. In those months often she thought of her mother with a new understanding.

With five months still to wait the second bedroom was ready for the new arrival and for Kathie it was the most natural thing in the world to spend any spare hours working out of doors. She wasn't as nimble as she had been in previous years, but any discomfort she felt (even to herself she refused to call it pain) she accepted as part of her new and exciting experience.

The latest pig, Bertram, was growing well. Pig and chickens continued to be her responsibility. As the crops flourished so she blossomed, feeling herself to be one with nature. Outside, it was a case of all four of them – Dennis, the two lads and Kathie too – working long hours right through the autumn. The baby wasn't due until towards the end of January, so she threw herself wholeheartedly into the work. As the season for each vegetable peaked she not only worked outside but indoors too as she put up her preserves for the winter.

It was in December, a grey still afternoon when the clouds hung low, when she took her shovel and outsize bucket and set to work clearing the pigsty. Although it was a job she disliked, normally she got through it with cheerful determination. But on that day every movement was an effort; over the last few hours she was sure something was different. For weeks she had silently accepted backache as a natural part of her condition, but on that day it seemed to push everything else from her mind. There was nothing,
nothing
but pain.

‘Oh Bertram, I know it's not your fault, but this is a filthy smelly mess.' With a mighty effort she emptied her shovel into the bucket, then just for a moment stood straight with her hand on the small of her aching back. It had been getting worse as the months had gone on, but it was something she had accepted as normal. When Dennis said, ‘Are you sure you want to help outside, you feel OK?' she always replied with the same reassuring smile and, ‘Fit as a flea', or ‘Just you try and stop me!' But on that afternoon in Bertram's sty she could have cried with the pain that was like nothing she'd known. It must be just the way the baby is lying, she told herself. It's never been like this. I must pull myself together; I bet some women are much worse. Oh, but I feel so awful. Pull yourself together . . . one more shovelful and the bucket will be full. That'll be all for this afternoon. Then I'll go indoors. Mustn't worry Den. If I lie down for a bit perhaps it'll be . . . ‘Ouch!' she cried out aloud before she could stop herself. With no one to see her she dropped her shovel then bending as near to double as her girth would allow, pressed her hands against the top of the fence of what she referred to as Bertram's garden (his or any pig's in residence at the time). She had never known such searing pain. It had woken her in the night and still been with her when she got up, but not like this. She ought to call Den and ask him to get one of the lads to carry the bucket. But Den would worry. Just because she had been so energetic all through these months that was no reason to suppose she wouldn't get pain at some stage. It must happen to all women. If other people could put up with it and not make a fuss, then so could she. Using all her willpower she stood straight, then stooped first to pick up the shovel then the heavy bucket. Bertram watched her dolefully, then as if to tell her that this was
his
space and he'd do what he liked, looking her straight in the eye he gave a satisfied grunt as he left a steaming deposit then turned his back on her and ambled indoors to lie on his clean straw. She put her spade over the wall, and then with her spare hand let herself out, closing the gate securely. Now to carry the load to the far end of their five-acre plot.