Bone Street/Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
MENDING, BUT———
THE Thursday following his operation was visiting day, and the patients were preparing for, and anticipating, some dainty which they expected their visitors would bring. Some eggs, perhaps, a pot of jam, contraband tobacco, which the convalescent patients smoked in the grounds. Guessing who would come and see them this week, for, as only two visiting cards were allowed each patient, they could only have two visitors on that day.
At five minutes to two the pessimist thought that the clock was fast, that the wife would be sure to break the eggs, would forget he was reaching convalescence, and bring no tobacco. The optimist thought that the visitor’s bell was ringing.
“Shut up ‘natterer,’” he shouted across to the pessimist. “Straighten thi face out of them kinks, it’s cold outside, it might freeze, then thi own wife wouldn’t know thi.”
At two o’clock the doors were opened and the visitors streamed in, some carrying bags of dainties, others with bunches of flowers, for the relatives never forgot the appreciation that the nursing staff have for a gift of flowers. Jack looked on vaguely wishing———
A buxom woman sailed down to the far end of the ward. She knew where her boy was, and rushing to him, leaned over the bed, almost picking up the youth of about fifteen years who lay there.
“Ay, my lamb, my lad, thi mother’s come again.”
A young woman accompanied by a little boy walked gingerly over the polished floor, while the boy, less careful, rushed up the ward. “Daddy, my daddy,” he cried, and so with relatives and friends the ward was soon full of a chattering crowd, chattering, questioning, crying. Tears of joy, tears of grief. Joy over a patient who was coming home soon. Grief for a patient who had to undergo another operation. Jack did not expect a visitor. Marthalice was the only one of his childhood’s life with whom he had kept up a friendship, and she would be busy with her family and home-work, but he was mistaken. He heard a voice in the corridor.
“Is this Mulgrave Ward?”
Surely he could not mistake the voice.
“Can ta tell me wheer Jack Bradley is?”
He raised himself in pleasurable anticipation, and there at the door was Marthalice, dressed in her best alpaca. She stood looking round the ward, while Jack was waving his hand frantically to attract her attention. On seeing him she grinned broadly and marched slowly (because of the polished floor) down the ward.
“Tha didn’t expect me, did ta?” she asked. “I called at Mrs. Thornton’s last neet to see how tha wor going on, an’ I nearly dropped when I heerd tha wor in t’hospital. Old Mr. Grimshaw said tha wor very bad, an’ that he was coming to see thi on Saturday, and bring thi some eggs. He said he couldn’t get off his work to-day, so I thought I’d better come mysen.”
And so she rattled on. She was brusque, her dialect could be cut with a knife, but she was a dear soul. One of life’s rough diamonds.
Jack’s eyes filled with tears.
“Now stop it,” she said thickly. “If tha starts roaring (crying) I shall start mysen.”
But fortunately she caught the “optimist” looking rather interestedly at her, and returning look for look, she said, “Well, does ta think tha’ll knaw me again?”
Jack had to laugh.
“Marthalice, there’s nobody like you. Come and sit down and tell me the news.”
And for nearly an hour he got the news.
“I’ve brought thi clean shirt and towel, some eggs, and I want to know if you can hev owt else brought in, cos Mr. Grimshaw is coming on Saturday. T’mill folk have been asking about thi, and they’re going to club up and send stuff in to thi. Our Polly is half-time next week, and is going to start at Bramfitt’s. Our Bella’s gone to learn weaving. Eee, lad, and they’re all getting that big, an’ we are getting that mucked up in the house, that I think I shall soon have to flit. Our Ruth wants a piano, and oil-cloth on the floor. She says she can’t abide a sanded floor, and she doesn’t like putting whitening on the doorstep. A’course she’s courting now, an’ it mak’s a difference, doesn’t it? But I forgot tha hasn’t started courting yet, has ta? Things is getting a bit slack in t’spinning nah. Bramfitt’s is going on five days a week. Mrs. Overend didn’t swill till after I’d done mine last Saturday, and then she swilled t’muck over my door-stones, but I gave her it.”
She caught the optimist’s eye.
“Well,” she said enquiringly, “does ta believe mi?”
“I do, missis,” she replied, “an’ I’ll bet she copped it.”
Marthalice laughed, Jack laughed, and even the pessimist smiled.
Quickly the hands of the clock moved round, until at three o’clock the bell informed them that time was up, and slowly the visitors departed.
“Cheer up, lad,” said Marthalice. “I’ll try and come next Thursday, and I’ll tell Mr. Grimshaw to bring thi some books.”
Gingerly she marched down the room, and with a move of the hand was off, leaving a smile on Jack’s lips, and a glow in his heart.
So life in the hospital went on. Mr. Grimshaw visited him. Marthalice brought Bella, who described to Jack her experience in the weaving shed.
“I shall get a pair o’ looms of my own soon,” she said. “Then I can addle (earn) more brass than in t’spinning.”
Mr. Grimshaw explained that Mrs. Thornton was feeling unsettled in the north, and contemplated going to her daughter in London. Two of her lodgers had left the town, owing to short time, and she expected her daughter coming to see her at Easter.
The weeks passed and the wounds in Jack’s arm were healing; the pain was gradually decreasing, but owing to being in splints he could not judge what use he was going to recover in it. He found out that he had been suffering from a very bad form of blood-poisoning.
One day, after three months in hospital, Mr. Halstone told him exactly the extent of the injury.
“I am afraid you will never quite recover the use of your arm,” he said. “Some bone has been removed, and you are fortunate to have escaped amputation. The elbow will always be stiff, and you must never try to lift heavy weights with it. Use it carefully, and you will gradually get more use in it, but if you use it roughly you will have more trouble.”
So eventually he was discharged from the hospital and returned to his lodgings, and after another month’s convalescence was back at Bramfitt’s working.
His arm had by now completely healed, but as he was unable to perform any arduous work, he felt somewhat uneasy about his position. True, the manager had told him to attend to the booking of stock, making out delivery notes, etc., but in those days anything could happen. He had no legal claim on his employers, and they could turn him off any time they desired.
So things went on until Easter, when two very important events happened. First, Jack’s landlady made up her mind to give up house-keeping and live with her daughter. It would take some weeks to get her furniture sold and settled up, but the decision was made, which meant Jack would soon have to find fresh lodgings. Secondly, Bramfitt’s firm was turned into a limited liability company. Old Mr. Bramfitt, who had previously managed the firm, was bought out, and although some of the purchase price was paid in shares, he entirely relinquished all active concern in the management.
A new manager was brought in to take charge, and during his tour round the mill noticed Jack with a book in his hand, while other youths were loading the wagon with skeps. He stood watching for a moment, then he addressed Jack with a curt, “What are you doing here?”
“I am waiting to consign these skeps,” was the reply.
“Why aren’t you helping?”
Jack stated the reason, and without another word the manager walked away.
Jack felt very uneasy. He had heard that the new manager was determined to make a big dividend. He knew that two old employees had been discharged, and on arrival home at noon found that Mr. Grimshaw was expecting his notice. The latter was not greatly concerned, for he was a careful man, and had previously contemplated retiring into the country with the idea of starting a poultry farm. Indeed, when Jack related what the manager had said to him, Mr. Grimshaw was more concerned about Jack than himself.
“Depend upon it, lad,” he said, “he’ll finish thi. I’ve had his history and he cares nowt about nobody but himself. If I wor thee, I’d be ready for the sack.”
His fears were only too well founded. The following day Jack was called into the office, and informed that after Friday his services would no longer be required. He felt a peculiar sinking of the heart, for he had worked at Bramfitt’s nearly ten years, and was now to be thrown on the scrap heap, with a permanently injured arm.
He tried to tell the manager that he would do any kind of work, but further conversation was stopped with a gesture.
“It’s no use, Bradley, you are not able to do the hard work. We cannot keep you on that job you are doing, a boy straight from school could do it quite well. I’m sorry, but you will have to finish. I’ll let you have a reference if you require one.”
Jack said nothing further, realising it was no use, and so he turned away to continue his last few days’ work.