Open Writing

The afternoon was memorable. The sun shone and they opened the windows that looked onto the river that meandered through the town. Couples stood on the arched stone bridge and gazed down into the water and boys sat on the parapet and dangled their legs. After scones, with the luxury of jam, her mother asked Beth to sing.

Despite the pleasure of the visit, Beth was in a reflective mood. She knew that when she returned to her rooms in Bradfield, she would consider her occupation and where it might lead. She would consider London, but only as a dream, for she could not leave her parents, even though they had Gertie. Her father was in ill health and would have few more pay days and if she could help, by turning a trick or singing a song, then perhaps she would and bugger London.

"Why are you smiling?" asked Gertie.

"Because I just swore," she confessed. "In my head."

"You always did all sorts in your head. You had such a head when you were little, it took you round the world and back, many a time."

"I know. But it always brought me back." She smiled sadly. "I suppose it always will."

Her mother said, "Beth, you must sing for us before you go. Like you used to."

Refusal was out of the question and she reluctantly agreed. Performing to an audience was one thing but she could not perform for her family, she could only sing. She had been more affected than she had suspected by this triumphant return home. Rather than enjoying cutting such a dash, she had been aware of the poverty of the people watching. They had basked in the reflected glory of two of their own who had escaped somewhere, anywhere, and were doing well for themselves.

"I shall sing," she said, "The Song Of The Shirt."

This was not a song she would perform for the pit at Burke's Music Hall. This was too sad and melancholy and too true to be entertainment for the masses. Her mother and father and Gertie became sombre and Robert, sensing the change in the atmosphere, tempered his smile.

Beth sang, as she had sung as a child, without accompaniment, and her voice swept out of the windows and those on the bridge fell silent as they listened to the eloquence of the popular verse that told the tale of the hardships and long hours of a seamstress, but which easily translated to the lives of every working man, woman and child.

Oh men with sisters dear, Oh men with mothers and wives.
It is not linen you're wearing out, but human creatures lives.
Stitch stitch stitch, in poverty, hunger and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread, a shroud as well as a shirt.
But why do I talk of death? That phantom of grisly bone
I hardly fear his terrible shape, it seems so like my own.
It seems so like my own, because of the fasts I keep.
Oh God, that bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap.

As Beth sang, she forgot where she was and her voice caressed the desperate words. At the conclusion, she sank into silence that was shared by the others in the room. She came out of her reverie at the polite applause that rippled in on the summer air through the windows from the audience on the bridge and laughed with embarrassment and pleasure.
Robert said, "You should take a bow," and she walked to the window and blushed and waved and the applause grew stronger and her mother embraced her and said, "Still our Beth."

The afternoon was lengthening and soon they would have to return. Robert took her father outside to stand by the river and smoke cigars he had brought from America, with the crowd standing at a respectful distance, watching them converse, which gave Beth the opportunity to give money to her mother, who, as always, was upset by the gift and had to excuse herself for a moment.

When the sisters were alone, Gertie said, "You shouldn't have to."

"Don't be silly, Gertie. Of course I have to."

"I don't mean giving us money. I mean how you earn it."

Beth prickled momentarily but saw that Gertie was not being critical but was speaking out of concern. Her sister had guessed months ago the full extent of her occupation but they had never discussed it.

"If it makes it easier, what I give her comes from Mr Burke."

Gertie smiled sadly and said, "If you say so."

Beth glanced at the door in sudden worry.

"Does our mam know?"

"Of course not."

The denial was too quick and too firm. If her mother didn’t know, she might suspect. Women sensed these things. Perhaps her mother knew more than she ever admitted. About Mr Ferguson, for instance. After all, what was the point in admitting that she knew when there was nothing she could do about it: the knowledge would simply become points of pain and contention. Best to pretend ignorance.

"Dad?" she asked.

At this, Gertie laughed, and said, "Dad doesn't know what time it is unless mam tells him," and that was true enough. At least, her father had no idea.
Her mother returned and held her and said, "You're a good girl, Beth. A good girl," as if to convince the both of them, and Gertie broke them apart before their mother cried and said, "Nearly time to go. And anyway, dad needs rescuing from that cigar Robert gave him. It's turning him green."

They laughed and turned the sadness into frivolity and went outside. Her father had introduced Robert to his neighbours who lived in a pair of cottages on the bank of the river, Richard Wood, who was a joiner, and Sidney Wimpenny, who was engineer at the nearby mill. The two men retreated politely to allow the family to make their farewells.

Robert kissed Gertie and gave her mother another great hug for all to see and shook hands with her father, confiding to him a few final private words that seemed to indicate a matter of importance.

At last, they mounted the carriage and drove over the bridge, the crowds waving and cheering again, and she turned to look back and saw her father standing proudly, the cigar that had almost turned him green, still in his hand, his friends waiting the chance to approach him and ask about Robert Dyce and what they had discussed.

They left the town and rattled along the ruts of the turnpike, the river to their right.

"Thank you," she said.

He laughed and said, "For what?"

"For being a hero."

**

To purchase an e-edition of this book for 86p please click on http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B005966G30