‘Weeks he’s bin bitin’ down on a bit of wood at night to keep from cryin’ out an’ frightenin’ the bairns, his legs smashed to pieces. You know – you saw ’em, Vicar. An’ when the gangrene set in an’ they brought the maggots to feast on his flesh, even then he didn’t give up. Fought to the last, Alfred did, poor devil. Well, he’s fightin’ no longer.’ The old woman’s rheumy gaze moved to the wooden trestle against one white-washed wall of the kitchen, a bucket standing beneath it to catch the drips from the body lying above. ‘God rest his soul.’
Jeremiah had remained still and silent throughout this discourse as befitted someone of his standing. He was not about to enter into a debate with Mrs Woodrow on the nature of her son-in-law’s untimely death; he had learned to his cost in the past that the irascible old woman had an answer for everything. His face impassive, he merely stared at her, wanting nothing more than to be gone from the two rooms the family of ten called home which smelled strongly of death and bleach. But his duty had brought him to the house to discuss the funeral the day after tomorrow, and he had never shirked his duty in his life.
He was grateful that most of his parishioners came from the better part of Southwick but there were a few, like this family, living in Low Southwick on the doorstep of the shipbuilding yards and marine engineering and glass bottle-works who worshipped at his church rather than attending a chapel or a smaller church in the district. Jeremiah looked on such folk as his cross to bear and prided himself that he did it with fortitude.
The tenement building in Victoria Street was all stairs and passages, and in this street and others like it, the front and back doors were always open, being thoroughfares for the numerous residents. It wasn’t unusual for each room of the two-up, two-down terraces to house entire families, but the Skeltons were fortunate inasmuch as they rented the downstairs of this particular house, comprising of the kitchen and front room, the latter used as the family’s communal bedroom.
Turning his pale-blue eyes on the bereaved widow, Jeremiah reminded her of something else she had to be thankful for as he ignored the old woman by the range. ‘It’s a blessing Adam and Luke are in employment, Mrs Skelton,’ he said stiffly, referring to the woman’s eldest sons who worked alongside their father in Pickersgill’s shipyard, or had done until their father was careless enough to get himself killed. ‘It must be a great comfort to know you are sure of two wages coming in each week.’
There was another ‘Hmph!’ from the corner by the range. ‘Aye, an’ young Luke already havin’ lost a finger an’ him only sixteen.’
‘Mam.’
This time her daughter’s voice held a note that caused her mother to narrow her eyes and suck in her thin lips, but she said no more in the few minutes Jeremiah remained in the house.
When he emerged into Victoria Street, the afternoon light was fading fast and the earlier rain had turned to sleet, but Jeremiah stood breathing in several lungfuls of the bitterly cold air before he began to walk briskly northwards. The stench of death had got up his nostrils, he thought irritably. It would quite spoil his appetite for dinner.
His thick black greatcoat and hat and muffler kept out the chill, and by the time he had walked along Stoney Lane and turned on to the green, he was sweating slightly. The usual tribe of snotty-nosed and barefoot ragamuffins hadn’t been playing outside the houses from whence he had come today, much to his relief. The worsening weather had sent them indoors. And now, as he made his way through the streets of High Southwick towards the vicarage, he relaxed a little. There might be some rough types hereabouts, especially among the Irish contingent in Carley, but they couldn’t hold a candle to the scum in Low Southwick.
He gave a self-righteous sniff, tucking his muffler more securely in his coat although it was perfectly all right as it was.
That dreadful old hag back there, daring to address him without a shred of respect for his position! Even the Carley O’Rileys, bad as they were, held him in the esteem due to him. It was a great pity the two Skelton boys were of an age to be in employment, since the workhouse would have soon brought their crone of a grandmother to heel and taught her to respect her betters.
He passed a group of ruddy-faced men leaving their shift at the Cornhill Glassworks, and as one man they doffed their caps to him. Their deference went some way in soothing his ruffled feathers, but he was still smarting a little as he opened the wrought-iron gates which led on to the drive of the vicarage.