Bone Street/Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
FOR MEN MUST WORK
BY the time Jack was eighteen he had gone into the spinning, and was first jobber for his room, and was beginning to realise he would soon have to commence seriously to consider the future, for being jobber was only a “Blind Alley,” a general kind of employment that led to nowhere, and knowing these things he kept his eyes open for anything better that might come along, and when walking home one night he heard that the under-foreman in the cellar had left to learn overlooking, he immediately applied for, and got, the job.
This meant returning to the cellar from where he started, but this time in part charge. He generally kept a supervision over the half-timers, in addition to which he kept a check on all the stock; the work was hard, the hours long, but Jack felt he was making decent progress.
His father was still working in the woolcombing, having the rich, red life sapped out of him, by the unnatural conditions he was compelled to work under, in the woolcombing shed.
Although only forty-five years old, he looked like a man well over fifty, with his pallid complexion, bloodless lips, sunken cheeks, and so spare of build that at eighteen years, Jack was easily the heavier of the two.
Jack had changed considerably in the few years since we first found him reading Ivanhoe. He was now almost formed in stature and features, about five feet seven in height and nicely proportioned. His hair was still—shall we say red? No, it was not, it was auburn, and the girls at Marthalice’s loved to ruffle it, much to his embarrassment. His nose firm, and inclined to hook just a little. Not a powerful jaw, but strong enough to carry him through.
His eyes were the most striking feature. Just look at him now, scanning over the paper after tea, to find interesting titbits, in order to read them aloud.
In a moment his father asked, “Anything interesting to-night, lad?” and immediately the eyes turned from brown to a light hazel, a smiling face is raised, and his eyes look straight on the loved face of his father.
“Aye, dad, there’s a dock strike on in Hull, they’re playing Hamlet over there.”
“Oh aye, a strike?” Bradley replied. “Well, if they get warmed up there, they will play pop. I once did six months’ work on the docks, and they are a rough lot when they are roused.”
“What sort of a place is Hull?” asked Jack, with a caress in his voice, and an anxious look in his eyes, as he looked on his father, worn out and old before his time.
“Not a bad place, lad”; and he continued, “we might have a trip there some time. What’s ta say?”
“Aye, it would be champion,” was the reply. “I’d like to see a real ship.”
“Reight,” said his dad, “we will have a day soon, when times are a bit better.”
Yes, they were firm comrades these two—they shared all, comforts and discomforts alike, books, walks, and even their scanty savings were invested jointly in the Co-op.
Bradley was uneasy. He could feel a gnawing pain under his left ribs which caught him particularly during the cold winter nights when he came out of the super-heated atmosphere of the mill. He felt, oh, so weary, and sometimes wondered, could he stick it out? He yearned intensively for his old love, his wife of only a few short years.
“Ah, well,” he would say to himself, “we’ll ’appen meet again some time.”
Sometimes he would talk to Jack about his mother. In a soft, hushed voice, he would recount their early married life, her intense love for the man of her choice, but he never repeated their dismissal from the farm, or gave Jack the slightest hint as to who his mother’s folk were.
By the time Jack had reached nineteen, the Hinchcliffes had both passed away, and the shop had been sold to pay funeral expenses, but Marthalice was still the staunch friend and mentor of the Bradleys. As a matter of fact, she and her daughters had gradually taken over control of the house-keeping, buying their food and superintending their clothing repairs.
One day a climax came. Jack arrived home from his work at his usual time, to find his father huddled up on a chair before the fire.
“What’s up, dad, are you poorly, how long have you been at home?”
Jack knew instinctively this was illness, and hurried to his side, to render what assistance he possibly could. His father looked at him wanly.
“I’m done, lad, I’m done,” was the reply.
“Hush, dad, hush, don’t talk like that, you will be all right in a day or two. Let’s get you to bed. I’ll get a fire upstairs in two ticks.”
And soon the invalid was in bed.
“Now I’m going for Marthalice, dad, and then for the doctor. I’ll send Marthalice over straight way.”
“Nay, never mind t’doctor,” said the elder man weakly, “I will ’appen be better soon,” but Jack stopped further conversation by a smile and leaving the room.
He hurried to his old friend, Marthalice, and in a very few moments she was at No. 20 trying to induce the invalid to take some gruel, while Jack was off to fetch the doctor.
The doctor, on arrival, made a careful examination of the patient. He diagnosed pneumonia, and instructed Jack to come to the surgery for medicine immediately.
“It is rather serious,” the doctor added; “keep him warm and give him the medicine regularly. I will visit him again in the morning.”
Jack hurried upstairs for a word with his father, then departed immediately for the medicine. Poor Bradley was a very sick man, and knew it.
“I’m done, lad,” he said, “I’m done. But I am glad to know that we’ve been pals. This last few years has been just grand. I’m real glad I pulled up in time, but I think it is all over now.”
“Nay, dad,” cried Jack, “you will be all right in a day or two—see, take this medicine, and I will make you some warm tea. Now cheer up, you’ll see, dad, to-morrow will find you better.”
His father’s eyes followed him as he left the room. “Bless him,” he said, “he’s a grand lad.” But his spirit was done.
He wanted his dear young wife. Jack pulled hard to keep him, but there in the background was another.
Jack sat in the room accompanied by Marthalice, and while the latter quietly moved about, setting the room to right, Jack sat by the bedside, trying to bring the spirit back to his father.
At about eight o’clock Marthalice whispered to Jack, “I’m going hoam for an hour, lad. I’ll slip over again soon to see how he is. Try and get him to tak’ some gruel,” and off she tiptoed downstairs.
There the lad sat, alternately soothing his father, and thinking over the past few years, dimly realising how very empty life would be without him. But the reverie was cut short by Marthalice returning.
“How is he, lad?” she asked quietly, but the voice awoke the sick man from his doze.
“Aye, Marthalice, lass, doan’t you trouble for me, I’m past it now, tha mun trouble for t’lad, ye’ve been a pal to both of us, an’ I’m sure he’ll remember you for the help ye’ve given us.”
Marthalice sensed this was more than a mere passing illness, but had no intention of showing it, and like many other good women, tried to hide her perception behind a mask of gruffness.
“I’m cap’t at thi talking like that, John Bradley,” she said, “tha wants to tak’ the medicine and have a reight good rest. Anyone would think tha wor going to be poorly a long while.” Her face relaxed slightly. “Though,” she continued, “‘appen I shouldn’t give thi t’rough side of my tongue, and thee badly an’ all.”
But it was no use, he looked at her with the patient smile of one who knows, and replied quietly, “Nay, Marthalice, nay, Jack, lad. I know what’s coming, an’ I don’t fear it for mysen, it’s ye I’m troubled about, lad, tha’s had a rough time, but we’ve had it together these last few years, hevn’t we? but I’m feared mine’s over now,” and he closed his eyes weakly too exhausted to continue.
Poor Jack silently watched him, anxiously waiting for any few words he might have to say. Towards eleven o’clock his lips moved again, but feebly.
Marthalice had gone home with an injunction to Jack to fetch her should his father get any worse, and as he sat patiently waiting, he heard the words, “Hello, lad, tha’s there yet then.” But Jack’s only reply was a tender smile.
“Aye, lad,” he said, “tha hardly knew thy mother, for tha was only a baby when she died. I wish she’d a-lived, things would ha’ been different for thee then.” Then half to himself: “I loved her. Her father nivver forgave her for wedding me, but we loved one another, and it was cruel to try an’ part us. I wonder if the hard time helped to kill thee, lass.” Then in another strain: “Aye, lass, I’m coming to thee, bless thi bonny face, my Mary, my lass.”
Just then Marthalice came into the room. “Nay, lad, I couldn’t go to bed and leave thee with thisen, I’ll stop a bit. Does he seem any better by now?”
The sick man was visibly becoming weaker and weaker, and just before midnight the end came. His struggles for breath terrified the lad, and tenderly he tried to raise his head to enable him to breathe easier.
Bradley was quite conscious now, and with a faint smile said: “Marthalice, tha won’t call me any more now, will ta lass? Tha’s been reight good to us, I thank thi, oh, so much.” And then to Jack: “It’s over, lad, but we’ve not done so bad, thee and me. I wish I had pulled up sooner. Tha’t just coming a man now, an’ I hope tha’ll pull through. Ah believe tha will. Keep off t’ale, and play the game. Goodbye, lad.”
He struggled for breath, and again wandered.
“I’m coming, lass, Mary, I’m——”
It was all over. Jack lowered the head slowly to the pillow. He had gone.
Marthalice threw her apron over her head, rocking herself to and fro, while Jack stood as if dazed.
“Marthalice, is he dead? Not dead, surely,” he murmured. “Why, he looks quite happy.”
Dead. Jack suddenly realised that the only human being belonging to him in the world had departed for ever; looking down at the dead man, he recalled their first walk over the moors; no more happy times with him, no more tramps across hill and dale, no more reading aloud in the evenings.
A sudden tightening was attacking his throat. “Oh, dad, dad, come back.” But Bradley’s troubles were over, and there was no reply.
Jack’s grief pulled Marthalice together. “Come, lad, tha can’t do owt for him, he’s happy.”
Gradually she drew him from the room, and across to her house.
“Sithee, get on t’ the sofa, now then, that’s it, get on, I’ll put the shawl over thi. Now try to sleep.”
But the night had to be lived through, and the next morning came as usual. Jack had to go to the mill to explain, and get time off.
Before going he went across to the house, and stood a few moments looking at the dead man. Reverently he gazed on the smiling, silent face. It was easy, he thought. Was he happy? he wondered. Yes, the calm face assured him that he was.
The funeral took place on Saturday. The coffin was followed only by Jack and Marthalice. Just a simple funeral, of a simple soul, who had loved quietly, and deeply. “May he rest in peace.” Jack listened quietly, and earnestly, thinking the words over intently, while the parson recited them.
“May He Rest in Peace.”