‘Aye, I hear all right. You’re telling me that our Stephen has hit a master and that he’s been playing the nick.’ It was seldom he referred to the boy as ‘our Stephen’.
‘Have you seen him?’
‘No, not since this morning…He’s not here. I told Mrs Overmeer not to bother keeping his dinner hot. Where are you going?’
As Mrs Overmeer appeared in the hall Maggie was already running down the steps again, and Christopher from the hall door, called, ‘Wait a minute, can’t you? Let’s get me coat and I’ll come.’ But by the time he returned to the door Maggie was gone, and not even the sound of her car could be heard.
He let out a good round oath and got into the Ford and set out for Ann’s. She must be up the pole. And yet if she was going up the pole her madness wasn’t likely to take this particular line regarding the boy. More likely she’d see him as the Prime Minister, or some such.
When he reached Ann’s it was to find Nellie entering the house on the same errand as himself. She was wearing her apron, which in itself was unusual and told its own tale, for she never ‘walked the street’ in an apron. She greeted him with ‘Maggie’s near mad. What could have made him do it?’ But before he could answer they were both confronted by Ann.
She looked quickly from one to the other. ‘Something’s wrong, Davie?’
‘No,’ said Christopher. ‘We’re looking for the boy. Is he here?’
Ann shook her head slowly; and her mother said sharply, ‘Now it’s no use hiding him; he’ll only have to face the music some time.’
‘What are you talking about? What’s happened to him?’
‘He’s not here?’ It was Christopher now asking the question.
‘No, he’s not here. Haven’t I told you! Don’t stand there looking mazed, tell me what’s happened.’
He told her what he knew, and she used the same words as Maggie, ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘I’d better get back and tell her,’ said Nellie.
‘Wait a minute, Mum, and I’ll come.’
‘No!’ Both Nellie and Christopher spoke together. Then Nellie turned and went hastily out—and Christopher added, ‘It’ll be better if you don’t until…later.’ He didn’t have to say ‘Until Maggie’s gone.’
Ann sat down by the table and looked at Christopher with the childlike stare that always made him want to put his arms about her. And he said, ‘Don’t worry.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘He’s going to be like our lads. We all played the nick, you know.’
‘But the master.’
‘Aye, that bit’s odd. As big as our fellows were, not one of them had the spunk to hit a teacher. There’s something fishy about it…I’d better get along, Ann, but as soon as I know anything I’ll slip back.’
His hand rested on her shoulder for a minute, and when he lifted it away it seemed accidentally to touch her short fair hair where it curled round her ear.
The door closed on him, and she watched him disappear down the garden; and for a moment her thoughts left Stephen and she murmured, ‘Poor Chris.’ His money, his car and his rise in the world had not lifted the adjective from his name—to her he would always remain ‘Poor Chris’; in fact, anyone who was unfortunate enough to be in touch with Maggie qualified for that adjective of poor.
Chris loved her—she knew that—and she often wondered what there was in her to evoke love. But of those who loved her, only one mattered—Stephen. Yet a few minutes ago, when the sight of her mother in her house apron had made her think that something had happened to Dave, there had been only him, and she had been flung back to the days when her love was full of worry and fear for him. Perhaps it was coming back, not the fear and the worry, but the love, as it was before they were married. A number of times during the past few months she’d had similar thoughts. But whether it was she herself or Dave who was resurrecting the past she did not know. She thought it was Dave, for he was different—not that he had ever been other than good to her, too good at times, but during these past months it was as if the tables had turned; instead of her leaning on and sheltering behind him, he was now in that position. He rarely left the house except to go to work; and it wasn’t as if he was trying to keep her company, but as if he wanted to be mothered and protected, like Stephen.
She had once read that the only successful marriage was that in which the woman was equally wife, mistress and mother, and that the outstanding marriages were those in which the mother part was most active. She did not believe any of this, particularly the latter part, for from her own observation of the families about her she saw that the sons did not want to be kept. Once they felt the mother trying to hold them, they strained away. Look at their Tom. Because her mother would not let him go he was like someone in a trap. Then look at all the Taggart lads. Kitty laid claim to none of them, and they were never off her doorstep. If she herself had had a son she would have…What if Stephen had really been her son? Would she have let him go? And would she have minded had he preferred Maggie to her?
She refused to pursue the matter, and jumped to her feet, chiding herself for sitting thinking useless things, worrying things, as she was always doing. Stephen was lost and in trouble and likely wanting her—it wouldn’t be his mother he would turn to. The thought lent wings to her feet, and she sped out of the house and to her mother’s.
At six o’clock Stephen had not been found. The police had known of his disappearance now for some hours, and as yet had not the slightest clue to his whereabouts.
Maggie, like someone demented, had driven the car around the nearby countryside until she was on the point of collapse. She had spoken to more strange people today than she had done in the whole of her life; and in spite of her cast-iron armour, she had found that the kindness and helpfulness of entire strangers forced its way through a chink and warmed her. Everyone had wanted to aid her; even Christopher had showered on her the pity that had lain so long dead.
He had returned to the house again, and, finding her pacing the floor, had said, ‘Sit down, lass, you’re all in.’
He had never before called her lass. And he actually took her arm and led her to the couch; and, what was even stranger, she allowed him to do it.
‘I’ll get you a drop of brandy,’ he said. ‘Sit yourself there.’
After she had drunk the brandy she looked up at him and asked, ‘Where have you been?’
It was as if they were an ordinary couple who were being drawn more closely together by their joint anxiety.
He answered, ‘Nearly as far as Bencham.’
‘Nobody seen him?’
‘No…One thing I found out, though.’
‘Yes…?’ She stiffened with eagerness.
He moved from one big foot to the other before saying, ‘Pat’s lads…they said they took him along with them this morning and they played in a wood. It was the Cobb’s place.’
Maggie was on her feet, her old self to the fore. ‘Those two! They’re the cause of it all then. They should be horsewhipped!’
‘Here, here. It’s done now, and it’s no use going on like that. Pat’s taken the hide off both of them.’
‘What about that wood? He might be there.’
He caught hold of her arm as she made for the door. ‘Tom and Pat and me have already scoured the place from one end to the other.’
She drew in a deep breath as she went back to the couch; but she had hardly sat down before she was up and pacing the room again like a caged beast. Christopher sat watching her, his hands hanging listlessly between his knees. He was only now beginning to worry, for all afternoon he had thought teatime would see him back…empty bellies had always brought their lads home. And he could see Stephen being driven by the same urge and slipping into the house, and they coming back and finding him, likely in the kitchen stuffing himself. But now it was well past teatime. And his disappearance was beginning to take on a seriousness; and he thought: What if he’s so terrified about hitting that master that he goes and does something? The somethi
ng began to assume various forms; and he rose saying, ‘I think I’ll go to me mother’s and see if they’ve heard anything.’
‘I’ll come.’ It was almost as if she had said, ‘Let me come’, but he said, quite gently, ‘No. You stay where you are, the police might ring with some news. You never know what them motorcycle squads pick up. And Mrs Overmeer is useless on the phone, you know that.’
Her usual attitude would have been to oppose on principle any suggestion made by him, but now she merely nodded.
Mrs Overmeer, all solicitude, brought in a tea tray. Mechanically Maggie poured herself out a cup of tea. She was feeling dazed and stupid; her mind was full of a new type of emotion, not connected with the fear, or worry of the moment. Its main ingredient seemed composed of sorrow; it was as if Stephen was dead, as if in this very hour she had lost him. She tried to make herself think that he would be found, and she could see him being found, but her mind still clung to the sorrow.
How long she sat there before she heard the scurry in the hall she did not know, yet before Tom’s voice came to her, calling, ‘Maggie!’ she was at the door.
‘You’ve got him?’
‘Yes. Don’t worry.’
Her hand went to her throat and passed up over her chin to her mouth; and she pressed it tightly as if to check the show of emotion she might later regret.
‘Where is he?’ She spoke too quietly.
‘With…with Chris.’
‘Are they coming?’
She looked beyond him, through the open door, to where the drive stretched away into the distance.
‘No, not yet.’
It was evident that Tom was uneasy; and she said, ‘Well, where is he? He’s not hurt or anything?’
‘No…no. Only upset. Chris is with him. He’ll be all right soon…You see, one of the masters brought him…a very nice chap. He found him hiding near his cottage, and he brought him in a taxi. And reading between the lines he seems to think Stephen did a good job in lamming into that other fellow. But the lad’s a bit shaken and he’ll need to be kept quiet for a time.’
‘But why didn’t he bring him home?’
‘Well, I never asked the chap that. And we were all too pleased to see the boy…Now, Maggie—’ He paused. ‘He’s found; be thankful and don’t go off the deep end.’ He paused again. ‘He’s at Ann’s. He likely told the teacher to take him…’
Maggie’s face was mottled and her body had stiffened. ‘Why couldn’t Christopher bring him back in the car?’
‘Well, he was a bit upset and they thought it best to leave him where he was.’ Tom didn’t say that the boy screamed, as if he was having a fit, at the thought of going home to his mother and to the censure he imagined lay in store for him.
‘It didn’t occur to any of you how I feel, did it?’
‘It did. But it was no use forcing him. And tomorrow he’ll likely be quieter, then he can come home.’
‘Can he?’ Maggie glared at her brother. ‘He’s coming home tonight…now!’
She turned to the door, and he caught hold of her arm, saying, ‘Don’t be a fool, there’ll only be trouble! Be thankful, can’t you?’
‘Let go!’
So menacing were her eyes that he obeyed her, and she ran down the steps; but at the bottom she turned and asked, ungraciously, ‘You coming?’
‘I’ve got my bike.’
He watched her start the car, and his eyes followed its streaking down the drive before he mounted his bicycle.
It was a good twenty minutes later when he reached Ann’s, and during his journey he had speculated on what he would find when he should arrive—Ann likely crying her eyes out because Maggie had forcibly removed the boy. And in Maggie’s present mood he could see no-one preventing her. He could see no-one preventing Maggie from doing what she wanted to do, in any mood. So he was puzzled as he walked up the garden path at not hearing raised voices—all he heard was a faint moaning sound. Through the opening of the curtains he could see a number of people in the kitchen. The odd thing was that they all appeared to be stationary. The oddness did not strike him fully, however, until he had passed through the scullery and opened the kitchen door. Whatever he had imagined, he was not prepared for the scene confronting him, the scene that was to change drastically the course of his life. It was like a tableau; Ann, with David on one side of her and Christopher on the other, was facing Maggie. All were rigidly still. Only David’s eyes flashed towards him as he entered. The tension was so great that it engulfed him, and he too became still. Standing just within the doorway, he looked from one to the other.
As if his presence had quickened the tableau into life Maggie’s head moved downwards in the likeness of an animal about to charge. She looked neither at Ann nor at Christopher; it was at David she looked. Then she said, with terrible emphasis, ‘You’ll be sorry.’
And David, shaking his head as if emerging from a trance, replied sharply, ‘Have some sense, woman. Do you think we’re keeping him here on purpose? I can assure you I’m not. You’ve seen yourself how he is. Listen to him now.’
He became silent for a moment and the moaning from above pressed down on them. ‘It’s as Chris says, if he has some sleep he’ll likely quieten down by the morrow, and he can go home.’
‘Are you going to let me have him? I can get the police.’
‘You forget that he’s got a father.’ David nodded sideways towards Christopher. ‘He’s got as much say in him as you.’
Maggie tossed her head up and made a sound that was midway between a laugh and a snort. Still addressing David, her voice thin and piercing, she said, ‘Huh! Do you think he’s keeping Stephen here for his own good? It’s to please her.’ Maggie’s eyes seemed to fling themselves on Ann. ‘If she wanted Stephen drowned, don’t you know he would do it?’ Now she asked of Ann directly, ‘Wouldn’t he?’
As though supplied by the one channel, the colour mounted into both David’s and Christopher’s faces, and Christopher took a step forward, saying, ‘Why, you!’
‘Deny it.’
The words were fired at Christopher, but Maggie still looked at her sister, and as Ann’s eyes stared defiantly back into hers Maggie’s venom rose. The sight of Ann standing there protected by two men, both of whom were willing that she should also have her son, was not to be endured. If a bottle of vitriol had been at hand nothing would have prevented her from hurling it into her sister’s face. But, driven by the intensity of her hate, she hurled something equally destroying.
‘Do you know your husband’s got another woman?…No, you don’t, do you?’ Amid the paralysed silence of the moment words gathered on her lips. Then, like arrows dipped in the poison of her hate, she sped them home: ‘And she’s given him a bairn. You didn’t know that, did you? No, you’ve been so concerned with my son you had no time to bother about what your own man was doing.’
Again it was as though life had departed from the group, but now they had the appearance of puppets whose strings were being held stationary by their operator.
Tom too became transfixed by Maggie’s words. His eyes darted to David and saw that within a matter of seconds his face had become grey and pinched, and an unnameable sensation filled him when he realised that no vehement denial would be forthcoming, for his brother-in-law had guilt written all over him. Yet what was more baffling, his eyes were widening in a stupid way, as if the denouncement had surprised him.
Christopher’s face, too, was a study in surprise but overlying it was anger, black anger. Tom found he could not look at Ann; he knew she was looking at David, and that her suffering would be in her eyes; and he could not bear to see it. Then something happened that wiped them all from his mind like a sponge as it passes over a slate; it brought the past into the room and opened the sealed door in his heart; it was as if the actual door had banged violently against his ribs, so great was the start Maggie’s next words evoked.
‘Beattie Watson’s determined to be in this family in some way.’
&n
bsp; Ann’s voice, like a scream, ran through the kitchen: ‘You’re lying! You’re wicked!’
And as Maggie cried, ‘Ask him, Ask him where he was VE night. Standing in the open like a…’
Christopher took a step forward. His arm swung across his chest until his hand was behind his shoulder; then it swung outwards and up, and the back of his hand came full across Maggie’s mouth, and the force sent her staggering back against the wall; and there was an eerie quiet in the kitchen. Christopher moved forward again and, pointing to the door, said, ‘Get out!’
Although rage was blinding him and he could, without the slightest compunction, have throttled her at this moment, he fully expected her to come sweeping back at him. But neither by word nor action did she retaliate; she eased herself from the wall and her hand did not even go up to her mouth where the blood was showing on her lip, but for one long second she looked at him; then without another word she turned about and slowly walked out of the room. No word of Stephen—she might not have been fighting for him—it was as if she had obliterated him with the words which had created this scene.
Christopher watched her go. Except for that time years ago when he had cuffed the twins, never had he lifted his hand to man, woman, or child. And now he had hit her. He had always been afraid of her, he knew that; even when he had stood up to her he had been afraid; but he’d be afraid no more; he had hit her.
His anger was giving way to a feeling of shame and surprise when his thoughts were lifted from himself by Ann crying, ‘No! Don’t come near me!’
He turned and saw her backing away from David, who, like someone dazed, was swaying on his feet, his head rolling on his shoulders as if he were in physical torment.
‘It was only the once, Ann…God!…Believe me. I tell you I was drunk.’
He looked wildly, first at Tom, then at Christopher, as if they could, if they would, substantiate his statement. With eyes seeming to spread and encompass her face, Ann was saying, ‘Beattie Watson. Beattie Watson.’ The name rolled round her tongue as though she were tasting it. She too looked towards Christopher and her brother; and then she made a sound, an inhuman sort of noise, half grunt, half moan that had about it a dreadful weirdness; and suddenly it broke and changed into a laugh, composed of low, staccato sounds, which increased in volume until it burst on a shrill scream as David came towards her: ‘Don’t!’
Maggie Rowan Page 25