Free The River Folk by Margaret Dickinson Page B

God forbid,’ he added with fervent reverence, ‘me and the lads would be camping outside that hospital door, I can tell you.’ Then he went on, ‘And was her mam pleased to see her ?’
    ‘Well, yes,’ Bessie said slowly. ‘Sort of, but even then it wasn’t how I would have been if I hadn’t seen one of me own for a few days. Elsie thanked me for looking after Mary Ann and told her to be a good girl and that, but there wasn’t the affection there, the love. You know?’
    ‘Mm, I can guess what you mean.’ He turned on his side, preparing for sleep. ‘Ne’er mind, Bess, we’ve enough love in this house to spare a bit for that little lass, haven’t we?’
    Not for the first time in her life, Bessie thanked the good Lord who had brought Bert Ruddick to her. As a young girl Bessie had been obliged to leave the river to go into service, yet she had always hankered to return to life afloat. Her marriage to Bert had put an end to those dreams, but her happy years with him had been worth the sacrifice. Although, Bessie chuckled to herself softly in the darkness, it wouldn’t do to tell him that too often.
    One afternoon, Edwina accompanied Mary Ann home from school, stepping into Bessie’s kitchen and sitting down, completely at ease in surroundings that were very different to her own home.
    She drew off her gloves and said, ‘I’m lending Mary Ann an embroidery frame. May we fix it to the edge of your table, Bessie?’
    ‘Of course you can.’
    From her bag, Edwina took out a small circular frame with two rings of wood, which fitted over each other, the outer one with a tightening screw. She fitted the frame to the table by means of a clamp and then she stretched a piece of canvas over the smaller of the two rings and placed the larger one over it so that the material was trapped between the two and stretched tightly.
    ‘That leaves you free to work with both hands,’ she explained. Taking a blunt-ended embroidery needle, she threaded it with coloured silk and took a couple of running stitches through the fabric to secure it.
    ‘Now, Mary Ann, watch carefully. We call this cross-stitch or gros-point. You make a diagonal stitch like this and then you bring your needle back up through there and then down again through that tiny square, crossing over the first stitch you’ve just made,’ Edwina explained. ‘But all the top stitches must lie the same way, usually from the bottom left to the top right corner. See? Now you try.’
    The young girl’s black hair, which Bessie had washed again earlier that day, was shining, tied back now from falling in unruly curls around her face. Her expression was one of rapt concentration as she followed the gentle guidance of the young woman sitting beside her. Edwina’s fair head bent close to the young girl’s and Bessie was pleased to see that the sombre black which Edwina had worn for more than a year following the deaths of her brother and her fiancé had now been replaced by a smart, close-fitting costume of deep purple. It was still too dark a colour for Bessie’s liking, but it was a start, she told herself. She liked to see Miss Edwina in royal blue, a vibrant colour that complemented her hair colouring and accentuated the colour of her eyes. But those eyes had not sparkled with joyous laughter for a long time now. Edwina was still the gentle, kind young woman she had always been, but the light had gone out of her eyes and out of her life.
    Bessie sighed. So many lives lost in that dreadful war with scarcely a family untouched by its tragedy.
    She fervently hoped that what they said was true, that it was the war to end all wars.
    ‘That’s very good, Mary Ann,’ Edwina was saying. ‘Come and see, Bessie, how neat Mary Ann’s stitches are.’
    Bessie stood behind them, peering over to see the girl’s work. ‘They are,’ she said, unable to keep the surprise from her tone. ‘Have you done sewing before? Has your mam taught you?’
    Mary Ann shook her