Free The Most Precious Thing by Rita Bradshaw

Him warning me ? The ungrateful little scut! I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for years and that’s all the thanks I get. Well, I know how things stand with him now, don’t I? He’s nailed his colours very firmly to the mast. I shan’t forget this night.’
     
    ‘Mam, Mam, don’t upset yourself.’ Alec’s voice was soothing and he put an arm round the stiff figure of his mother. ‘Don’t let either of them, David or Da, spoil my news, eh? Come on. To hell with what they think anyway. You know Da’s never liked it because I wouldn’t follow him blindly down the pit like the others, and as for David, he’s just plain jealous. Mr Reed’s daughter is a catch and he knows it. But they don’t matter, neither of ’em, not to us. They never have, now have they?’ He gave his mother a comforting little squeeze.
     
    ‘The years I’ve done without myself and put you bairns first.’ It was plaintive.
     
    ‘I know, Mam, I know.’ Alec led his mother across to the table, pulled out one of the chairs and pushed her down on to it. ‘I’ll make us a nice cup of tea and while it’s mashing I’ll tell you what Margaret’s mother wants for the wedding, shall I? She’s set her heart on a do at the Grand and no expense spared. What do you think of that?’
     
    ‘The Grand?’ Olive was smiling again. ‘Oh, lad.’ She caught hold of her son’s hand, beaming up at him, and neither of them noticed when Lillian left the room.
     

     
    ‘Tell me again what she said, and word for word, mind, from the time you caught sight of her in North Bridge Street.’
     
    ‘For cryin’ out loud, woman.’ Sandy twisted restlessly in the bed but his voice held no real irritation. The truth of the matter was that he was worried sick himself, he admitted silently. His lass hadn’t been right since Christmas, all white and wan looking, and he could swear she was thinner than ever. The East End was still a hotbed of consumption and other things, and with that damn firework factory being located so close to the docks . . . ‘You noticed her coughin’ at all?’ he asked his wife abruptly, frightening Joan to death in the process.
     
    ‘Coughing? Oh, Sandy! Our Carrie? You don’t think . . .’ Joan sat bolt upright in bed, one hand clutching the neck of her faded red flannel nightgown.
     
    ‘Lie down, woman, you’ve pulled all the covers off, an’ no, I don’t think! I was just askin’, that’s all.’
     
    Joan slid down beside him again, her cold feet automatically finding the warmth of his body which was better than any stone water bottle. Although the room was in total blackness she knew he was rubbing his hand round his face, something he did when he was troubled. She pressed closer to him, one arm round his wide thick chest. ‘What did she say?’ she asked again.
     
    ‘I’ve told you.’ And then, when Joan said nothing, he sighed. ‘She was walkin’ steadily, not hurryin’, just steady like, an’ I hailed her an’ asked her what the hell she was playin’ at, worryin’ us both to death. An’ she said she’d had to wait longer than she thought at the market for the sell-offs. I asked where Lillian was an’ she said she’d made her go home ’cos of her mam bein’ liable to play up if the lass was late. I said you were fair out of your mind an’ she said she was sorry but she wanted to get the best prices she could, an’ then she went for me for comin’ out to look for her with me foot bein’ bad.’
     
    ‘How does it feel now?’ Joan asked softly. He’d insisted on going himself even though it had taken him a full minute to force his boot on and there had been no question of lacing it up.
     
    Again she felt, rather than saw, the irritated flap of his hand. There was silence for a moment and then Sandy said, ‘You’ll have to talk to her the morrer an’ get to the bottom of it.’
     
    ‘I’ve tried, you know I have.’
     
    ‘Aye, I know, lass, I know, but we can’t carry on