August 1887
August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.
Thursday, August 11th
Thursday evening and no one to yell or stop them going to Night School. Haying finished, only the last stacks to be built. Jack and the men were working on one this night. The house sat warm and silent at the end of another sunny day. Thankfully silent. John-Jack, praise God, slept. His pain came in bouts, some days he looked himself, even got about a bit, but when the pain returned he collapsed, curling up like a hedgepig and, at its worst, screaming like a dying horse. Nothing helped, not the doctor’s medicine, nor Maggie’s herbal mixes. The doctor talked of purges next. Tizzie shuddered. It were hard just waiting and praying, but John-Jack were a grand strong lad, he’d be fine surely.
Seated at her dressing table, Tizzie looked from her own drawn face to Agnes’s misery squeezed features, both reflecting wanly in the glass. “Come now, lass. Shall we stay home? You can finish that shawl you’re knitting.”
Agnes shook her head. “No, if Mam won’t let me help, we can go. Molly gets to sit with him. My brother, not hers, and she sits with him.” She sniffed.
“Aye, lass, but you’re not able to lift him or get the medicine down him when he’s having a turn.”
“I could read to him after.”
“Happen your Mam’ll let you.” Tizzie reached out, pulled Agnes close. “Come then, lass, let’s be off. We can’t help John-Jack now. We’ve done enough hard work since sunrise, we can slip out, our duty done.”
And you needs to go away for a while, she thought, ‘tisn’t good to hear your favourite brother scream and cry, makes you fret so. Schoolmaster’ll set you right tonight, but I must think on for later. If...she stopped her thoughts, inhaled deeply.
“Come on, lass. It’s Shakespeare tonight.”
The front door stood open, Maggie’s way of cooling the house. Out of sight too, Jack’d never spot them leaving this way. Tizzie let Agnes catch her hand and they ran, only stopping when they reached the lane end.
***
Every school room window had been flung open. Tizzie expected the three trainee teacher lads and maybe one of the women borrowing a pattern book, for hay harvesting kept everyone out in the fields, but when she stepped into the room she saw three groups of people. Miss Eddings sat in the far alcove. A bunch of lasses, some Agnes’s friends, huddled their chairs around her. Those saucy post office lasses shared the new pattern book, making copies of something, a summer dress by the look of the pieces spread on the table. Schoolmaster’s group surrounded the blackboard, the schoolmaster calculating figures with a piece of chalk. He and the trainee lads discussed a written problem, in loud voices. Tizzie’d have called it arguing, but the schoolmaster said it were reasoning out loud. Agnes gave a little gasp, flew to join them. Tizzie read the words. It were one of those logical trick questions, not for her, though she were getting better at seeing the tricks now. No, Phoebe Eddings held a big book, with illustrations, one of the history or geography books, that’d be more her style tonight, a bit of an escape.
By nine o’clock, only the scholars with Miss Eddings and the Schoolmaster remained. They finished the evening reading ‘great literature’ together. Schoolmaster’d promised a new Shakespearean play, and he kept his word. It were ‘A Midsummer’s Night Dream’. Tizzie’d been wanting to read that ever since Agnes had recited the fairy piece that young Mike’d refused to learn for the concert. How well the schoolmaster enticed all the scholars with a quick description of what the play were about. Robin Goodfellow she knew. Indeed, some folk believed in him, her Nan had. She always left a saucer of milk for him outside the dairy door when cream were rising. Schoolmaster’d picked a couple scenes to tempt the scholars to return next week. He made everyone read a part, encouraging the nervous. It were the scene with Bottom and Snout and Flute planning their play. Tizzie’s eyes watered, her cheeks ached from laughing. She felt her face muscles stretch again. There’d not been much to smile at these past days with John-Jack the way he were.
Finally Miss Eddings brought out real lemonade, and ginger biscuits and the schoolmaster thanked them for coming. “You are always welcome. Keep coming, bring your friends and family to share the books and to learn. Encourage Miss Eddings who will be teaching Night School on her own after next week when I return to York.”
“No.” This from Agnes. Tizzie swallowed her words of regret, but the other scholars cried out too.
Trainee Herbert stood. “Excuse me, Sir, but will you not be coming back here?”
The schoolmaster’s face grew grave, he paused before he spoke. Tizzie watched his features, noted the lips compress. A quiet man he’d always been, not one for gabbing out his personal life. Happen he’d not say. She watched his lips curve upwards. Ah, he had decided, he would tell them something.
“My sister is to be wed in September. She will leave York to live near Pickering. My mother then will be alone. She is an invalid and needs my help.”
“But we need you.” The words burst from Agnes. Tizzie nudged her.
“As does my mother, and I owe her all honour and duty.” The schoolmaster looked at the three trainees. “Sir Charles is choosing a new man to teach here. You will continue your studies with him until you are ready to seek positions. I will see to places in York at the Quaker schools for further training. Sir Charles will offer assistant positions in the village schools here for you or help you find them in York.”
Agnes and her friends gathered round the schoolmaster. Tizzie sought Phoebe and another glass of lemonade.
“That’s a difficult task for you, Miss Eddings, you teaching both classes on your own in school and the Night School.”
“Phoebe, Tizzie, you may call me Phoebe in private. And yes, I am fully frit, as you would say, but Sir Charles will not leave me unsupported for long.” She drew in a deep breath, smiled at Tizzie. “It will be a challenge for my skills as a teacher.”
“Aye, it will at that.” Tizzie’s pleasure at being friend enough to call Miss Eddings, Phoebe, loosed her tongue. “I hope new master likes poetry and books. I’d miss the readings.”
Agnes arrived at her elbow, the schoolmaster following behind. “Hello, Miss Eddings. Time to leave, Auntie Tiz, Sir’s chasing us out.”
Tizzie turned to reprove Agnes, but Phoebe laughed.
“If all your scholars are so impertinent, how will I manage, Mr Topley?” The schoolmaster flicked his finger under Agnes’s nose. Agnes turned poppy red and hid behind Tizzie. Tizzie felt her trembling.
“Miss Cawthra hopes the new master will read poetry and plays as you do, Mr Topley.”
“While Herbert, Eddie and George are studying here, he will read with them, and any who care to stay on to listen, Miss Cawthra. Sir Charles knows what I do and he will bring another Quaker trained schoolmaster to teach here.”
“I’m glad, Mr Topley, I...” Tizzie felt Agnes squirm, tucked her hands behind her and patted the lass, knowing what she were after. “I’d like to read that Shakespeare to the end.”
“So you shall, Miss Cawthra, so you shall.” His face changed, showed concern. “May I ask how John-Jack is faring? We miss him in school.”
“He’s more down, than up, Schoolmaster, the pain comes and goes.” She smiled at him, dared to say more. “He’ll take it well that you asked so kindly.”
“Please give him my best wishes for his recovery.”
Tizzie lowered her eyes. “I thank you.” Agnes tugged Tizzie’s dress sash fiercely. Tizzie, hands still behind her back, caught and restrained Agnes’s hands. “And will Agnes be able to go on working with the trainee lads, Schoolmaster?”
Phoebe, smiling and shaking her head at the lass, took hold of Agnes, drew her out from behind Tizzie. “You had better come to Night School, Agnes Cawthra. I shall need your help teaching.”
Agnes’s face glowed. Her eyes were indeed a window to her soul, so clear did her pleasure shine forth. Tizzie noticed the quick glance Schoolmaster Topley and Miss Eddings...Phoebe...exchanged over Agnes’s head. He’d told her to watch out for the lass then.
“We’ll be here won’t we, Aunt?”
“Aye, lass. Come now, say your goodnights. We’ve another long day tomorrow.”
Agnes bobbed to both teachers and ran to the door. Tizzie, turning to follow, found the schoolmaster beside her, holding out his copy of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’.
“Agnes tells me you have been buying and sharing books with her. Perhaps you would enjoy sharing this.” He put the book into her hands. “You may return it when I return to the Dale.”
Tizzie grasped the book, fumbled for words, managed to stutter. “I...we’d...thank you, we’d like that right well.” She hastened after Agnes wondering if she’d dare keep her lamp burning an extra half hour to read the opening of the play. One day, one day she would actually see a Shakespeare play in a real theatre. Mayhap if she ran off with Agnes to York she’d see plays there. That was an encouraging thought.
***
Sunday, August 21st
Black Sunday. John-Jack, skin like yellow wax melting off his bones, eyes sunk so far into his head ‘twere more a skull than a face, lapsed into unconsciousness. He could neither eat nor hold down a drink. His lips, dry, rough chapped, stuck to the rim of his drinking glass and bled. The doctor, his purges useless, spoke of a stomach blockage. “Pray,” he told Maggie and Jack, “Only God can help now.”
The vicar and the minister had both called, their prayers for John-Jack were said daily. His Lordship’s land agent visited on horseback to buy Agnes’s lambs and to offer the family’s sympathy and support in the form of the harvest gang. Each day a neighbour dropped in with lemon barley water, raspberry vinegar or their particular family’s cure-all. They had, Tizzie thought, more visitors these past ten days than they’d had for years. Farming went on as Molly and Maggie shared the daily nursing, Tizzie and Jack split the night watches.
His time drew near. Tizzie sneaked Agnes in with her on her early morning watch. The lass slept little, fretting for her brother. ‘Twas best she sat with him now before...before the end.
Together they sat, knees touching John-Jack’s bed. Tizzie arranged the stool so that Agnes could rest her head on the bed and doze if she wished. Her own chair she placed beside the stool, that way Agnes could lean against her as she slept.
The lass didn’t want to read to her brother. She wept. Tizzie blew out the candle and rose to open the curtains. There were enough light coming across the eastern sky this summer pre-dawn for them to see greyly and make out the shapes in the bedroom. The waning moon shone on John-Jack, propped up on a bank of white pillows. He lay as if asleep. Thank God, and pray he didn’t wake to more pain. Tizzie’s eyes filled, she blinked them away. His cries had cut so sharp she wondered her heart hadn’t bled. She moved back to her chair and disturbed Agnes.
“What is it that ails John-Jack, Auntie Tiz?
Tizzie felt the movement as the lass reach into her dress pocket, fumbling round for the handkerchief she knew her aunt kept there. “We don’t know. Here, it’s in my lap. Stop sniffling and blow.”
“Why doesn’t God heal my brother?”
“Ah, Agnes. I don’t know what the Lord intends do I? No one does. The vicar says ‘God’s will is done whether we will or no.’”
“But it’s not fair. John-Jack’s a better lad than Mike. He shouldn’t die.”
“Agnes, when has life ever been fair? We can’t know what God intends, lass, we just have to hope it’s better than we deserve.”
“Oh, Auntie Tiz!” Agnes’s voice rose to a wail.
“Hush now, poppet. Hold your brother’s hand and talk to him. Tell him all the things you want to say, tell him you’ll miss him.”
“He can’t hear me.”
“I reckon he can. Let him go, lass, with kind words from you. Tell him you love him. Let him leave you with that message in his heart.”
“Oh, Aunt.” Agnes dropped her head into Tizzie’s lap. Her hot wet tears fair scalded Tizzie’s thighs.
“Tha’s soaking my dress, lass. Don’t take on so.” She raised Agnes’s head, patted her cheek. “Here’s my handkerchief again, use it, lass.” The wet cotton of her dress stuck clammily to Tizzie’s legs. She flicked it free and reached for John-Jack’s hand to draw it near enough for Agnes to reach. She took Agnes’s hand and placed it on her brother’s. “There now, hold on to him.”
The lass did. “You don’t cry, Aunt. Don’t you care?”
Couldn’t she see? Tizzie rose, walked to the window. “Aye.” The panes of glass were cool, a blessing to rest her forehead against. “What troubles me...” she paused, closed her mouth, let her thoughts run on. It’s tha Mam, but do I tell the lass this or do I not? What’s Maggie going to do without John-Jack playing his part in her plan? She turned to speak to the lass and saw Agnes’s head drooping on the bed, her forehead touching John-Jack’s hand. The sound of her breathing told Tizzie she dozed. John-Jack lay still, only his faint uneven breaths showing he hadn’t slipped away.
All that pain the lad’d borne. If tha’d been an ailing calf, John-Jack, I’d have seen to you days ago. We don’t allow calves to stagger about in such pain. Oh, God, why does the lad have to suffer so and us helpless to aid him? She returned to her chair and took his hand. It felt like scrumpled brown paper, all harsh, stiff and dry.
“I shall weep when you’re gone, John-Jack. You had your life all planned and lived full of hope. You’d have escaped your Mam and Da and lived as you chose. Instead you get this, such dreadful pain ending in a grave. Agnes is right. It isn’t hardly fair and God only knows why.”
She rested her head beside Agnes’s and drifted into a pattern of dozing, waking and napping as she did during calving season. It were safe to do so. Molly were coming to relieve her and she’d promised to say nowt about Agnes being there.
***
John-Jack died while the family attended church. Maggie stayed home with him, stood dry eyed when she told them all as they came into the kitchen together. Jack flushed, turned his Sunday hat round and round in his hands, staring at it. Mike watched his Mam. Bert wrung his cap between his fingers, head down, hiding tears. The lasses plopped down onto the bench. Molly clutched at Agnes, grasping her arm. Agnes ducked her face into a handkerchief. Molly’s face looked empty, stunned, then her eyes filled, tears poured. Tizzie sat down beside Agnes and felt ashamed, for all she could think of was how John-Jack had escaped, had relief now from that relentless pain.
“We’ve all work to do. Get on and do it, I’ll speak to the Minister.”
So it were a chapel funeral Maggie’d arrange. Tizzie rose, caught both lasses by their elbows and raised them. Agnes spoke before she could stop her.
“John-Jack liked the vicar. He came to church....”
Maggie erupted, surging forward. Tizzie swung both lasses away, pushing them up the back stairs before Maggie crashed down on Agnes.
“Get yourselves out of your Sunday Best and into your work dresses.” She shoved them onto the landing, turned back down the stairs. Best distract Maggie, try to settle that temper of hers before the lasses reappeared. If only she could make her cry over John-Jack, that’d do it.
She didn’t mean to eavesdrop, not at a time like this when everyone were churned up and rancid with grief, but the backstairs door had popped open a hand span.
“If we want to have the Naizbit farm rent by Lady Day we canna hire a labourer.” Maggie’s voice, flat and hard. “I’ve done the reckoning, Jack.”
“I can’t do all his work and my own.” Bert’s voice, a bit croaky but definite.
Mike piped up. Tizzie didn’t hear all but his last words. “...I can’t do his work and Aggie’s a useless lass.”
“Molly has three brothers. I’m thinking one of them could work here if we promise him a share in a farm for the future.”
John-Jack new dead and his Mam already filling his place, ah, trust Maggie to look ahead and have a scheme ready. But Tizzie could see the sense in it. Bringing another lad in meant Maggie didn’t have other plans or any suspicions about Agnes not doing as she’d been told. She moved down the last two stairs, put her head round the door and interrupted Jack.
“Then that plan for the la...” he broke off as Tizzie entered. “What’s tha doing?”
“Agnes and Molly don’t have decent blacks for the funeral.” She found herself choking on her words, sobbed once, her cheeks wet. “Do we buy them in town or order them from the catalogue.”
Maggie sat down. “I...,” she stopped, clenched her hands together against her breast. “He were a grand lad. We could have better spared Aggie.” Finally she wept.