Sarah’s head was lowered. She knew where he had got the money from, only too true she knew. She looked up quickly, saying now, ‘Since he was found near Redhead’s Docks down East Holborn way I thought…well, to tell you the truth, Phyllis, I thought you might know something about it.’
‘No, no, I tell you I don’t; but mind, if I’d known he was in the habit of coming down that way, take it from me I’d have done something about it. There’s one or two blokes down there who’d beat up their mother for a pint. But he chose the wrong place to use his spy glass when he chose Holborn. It’s as Ali says, he was likely watching a couple. But somebody was watching him, and they lathered him. And good luck I say, good luck to whoever it was.’
Yes, good luck to whoever it was. She endorsed that, oh, she did. She only wished they had done the job properly. Eeh! If only she could stop thinking like that…She finished her tea, then asked, ‘How’s the children?’
‘Oh, I’ve got Jimmy in bed again, he never seems well. I’ve had the doctor. He just says, well, nothing’s wrong with him really; give him plenty of fresh air and feed him well, he says. I can do that all right. He gets his grub, he’s luckier than some. I thank God for the cafe every day of me life. Getting things at cost, it means a lot.’
‘How is it going now?’
‘Oh, just scraping along. In fact hardly that, nobody’s got anything.’
‘It’s worse up in Jarrow.’
‘Yes, I know. I went up there the other day. It’s dead. I was glad to get back. While I was waiting for a tram there was a fellow talking to a group of them; they all looked as if the smell of a pot of stew would knock them over. But the way this fellow was talking! Like a lawyer. And something he said stuck with me. It isn’t very often I listen to the blah-blah-blahing. But it was true what he said. He said Jarrow had been raped and it had given birth to twins, hated twins, hunger and idleness. That’s what he said.’
‘He’s right too, in a way, at least. Only I don’t know so much about the idleness. All the men up there are trying to do something. John is forever helping to organise things. It’s funny.’ She smiled. ‘He said the other day that a lot of the fellows have received an education through being on the dole, and when your stomach isn’t full he says you can always think better.’
‘I saw him in the market last Saturday afternoon. He was with a woman; she was youngish, but she looked a snipe. Would it be his wife?’
‘Yes, that sounds like May.’ Sarah nodded. ‘Small, thin. And she’s a snipe all right, you never know how you have her.’
Sarah now gathered her bag and gloves towards her, saying, ‘I’ll have to be moving, I’ve left Paul looking after Kathleen and they’ll have the place turned upside down.’
It wasn’t until they were on the pavement that Phyllis turned towards Sarah, saying, ‘Are you still wanting a piano for David?’
‘Yes. You know I do. But I can’t manage the money now.’
‘This one’s only four pounds. Ali says it’s a bargain. You know, he said he’d keep a lookout for you. He takes adverts for the cafe window, it all helps, and he got this one for the piano. He even went and had a look at it. It’s just off Fowler Street and the people are in straits. Ali says it’s being given away.’
‘But four pounds! I haven’t got it, Phyllis. I’ve got about thirty shillings put by and that’s the lot.’
‘I could lend it to you. Oh, I’m not on me beam ends, don’t you worry. I keep slipping a shilling or two into the old tin. Look, Sarah, you can have it and welcome.’
Sarah looked through the slanting rain over the market place towards St Hilda’s Church and she thought that the morning had lightened, her future had lightened. She saw through the rain a space ahead without the dread of the tap on the back door on a Monday morning. Perhaps weeks, months of respite, perhaps a lifetime of release…If he should die. Oh, dear God, let him die…There she was again. It was dreadful to keep going on like this, wishing somebody dead. But he deserved to die; he was wicked, horrible. She felt at times she could embrace a reptile easier than she could look at him…And then there was Phyllis offering to lend her money for the piano. Yes, the morning was lighter.
‘Look, will I tell Ali to put five shillings on it, then you could go and have a look at it yourself, eh?’
‘Yes, yes, Phyllis.’ Sarah was nodding enthusiastically down on Phyllis. ‘Yes, I’ll come down on Monday, eh? What’s the address?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember it offhand. It’ll be in the shop.’ They looked at each other in silence for a moment, then Phyllis asked softly, ‘Won’t you come round to the house, Sarah? You’ve never been.’
‘You’ve never asked me.’ They smiled shyly at each other.
‘It’s Seven, Waller Place.’
‘Seven, Waller Place. All right, I’ll come, Phyllis; I’ll come in the afternoon after I’ve dropped Kathleen into school. About two, eh?’
‘About two. But mind, don’t expect too much. Although’ - Phyllis’s chin went up—‘I’m not ashamed of our place, I’ve got no reason to be. It’s a damned sight better furnished than some of them at the other side of the town. I can tell you that.’
‘I’d love to see it, Phyllis.’
‘Well, Monday. So long, Sarah.’
‘So long, Phyllis.’
They touched hands quickly, shyly, then went their separate ways, hurrying as if to get rid of their embarrassment.
It was as the tram came to a stop at the top of Stanhope Road that the thought sprang into Sarah’s mind: ‘I’ll pay a visit.’ And just as the bell rang for the tram to move on again she jumped off and crossed the road and went down the gentle slope towards the church.
The church was empty and quiet. She blessed herself with holy water from the font, then went down the side aisle, past the pictures of the Stations of the Cross to the front pew before the altar of the Virgin Mary; and as always when she came to this church she felt in a strange way as if she had come home. But she hadn’t been in the church for years, and over the past four years she had rarely seen the priest. Father O’Malley had apparently given her up as a bad job, but since Kathleen had started at St Peter and St Paul’s school Father Bailey had been to see her twice. He was nice was Father Bailey, and he thought the world of Kathleen.
She began to pray. The Our Father, the Hail Mary. Then she repeated parrot-wise, ‘Come, Holy Ghost, fill the hearts of thy faithful and kindle in them the fire of thy love. Send forth thy spirit and they shall be created and they shall renew the face of the earth.’ All the set prayers of her childhood. And then she was talking to God, talking rapidly, beseechingly, asking Him of His mercy to take her father, to make him die. She bent her back until her buttocks were resting against the seat, and her head bowed on the back of the seat in front of her; her forearms at each side of her head brought her hands clasped above her hat, and she talked to God as if He was before her, as if she was clutching His garments. Take him, O Lord, take him, because I’m frightened. I nearly hit him last week. Take him, O Lord. I can’t bear the sight of him, he’s evil, I’m afraid of what I might do. I’ve thought of doing just what this man’s done to him, O Lord. I’ve thought of following him on a dark night, O God forgive me. Take him, Lord; please take him. And for no reason she could think of she found herself now repeating the seven capital or deadly sins. Pride, covetousness, lust, envy, gluttony, anger and sloth.
‘Sarah.’
She sprang back on to the seat, crouching against the pillar to the side of her, staring up at the hand that had touched her shoulder and the face above it.
‘Are you all right, Sarah?’
‘Y-e-s, Father. Oh, Father, you gave me a fright.’
‘I’m sorry, Sarah.’ The priest slowly sat down on the edge of the pew a few feet from her and he asked quietly, ‘Are you in trouble, Sarah?’
She swallowed and moved her head as if in denial; yet its very action was an affirmative answer, and Father Bailey said, ‘What is it? Can I help you
? Dry your eyes.’
She fumbled in her bag for her handkerchief and dried her eyes and blew her nose, and then dried the fresh tears that were flowing down her cheeks.
‘Is it your husband?’
‘Oh, no. No!’ The denial was emphatic. ‘He’s wonderful to me, Father. Believe me, no-one on earth could be better. No. No.’
‘It isn’t the child, is it? There can’t be anything wrong with Kathleen. I saw her yesterday.’
‘No, Father, Kathleen’s all right.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to tell me, Sarah?’
‘Oh, Father.’ Her whole body slumped against the pillar. Could she tell him? Not to a living soul had she uttered a word of the cause of her mental anguish over the past years. Everybody thought she had nerves, and indeed she had nerves now. But oh, the relief to be able to tell someone, to know that someone would understand, and this priest, this good priest, would understand. She wondered why she hadn’t thought about it before. But then she remembered she had thought about telling it in confession and dismissed it. She lifted her eyes wearily to his now and asked quietly, ‘Could you hear me in confession, Father?’
‘Certainly, Sarah.’ He held out his hand and raised her to her feet as if she was a sick person, and to him she was a sick person. Then he turned from her and moved out of the pew and up the church towards the confessional box, and he went into one door, and she into the other.
When she was kneeling on the kneeler, her face to the wire mesh, she whispered, ‘Will I start as if in confession, Father?’
‘Yes, Sarah.’ And so she began formally, ‘Please, Father, give me your blessing for I have sinned’—this opening had always struck her as comical, for it seemed you were asking the priest to bless you because you had sinned—but not today. She went on, ‘It is nearly six years since my last confession. I have only missed Mass a few times, but I have never been to Communion or my Easter duties.’ She paused here, thinking of all the venal sins she had committed. Bouts of temper. Thinking unkind thoughts. Missing her morning and night prayers. All her small sins she told him, and then she paused again before saying, ‘My main sin, Father, is wishing someone dead. It’s about this I want to tell you.’
‘Go on, Sarah, I’m listening.’
And so she told him. She told him exactly what happened on that New Year’s morning, and she told him of the morning her father had visited her and his weekly visits since. Of the five shillings a week she paid him, and of the terror rising in her of late in case she would do him an injury. And lastly she told him of feeling glad, in fact joyful, when she heard he had been beaten into unconsciousness.
When she had finished, the priest made no sound and she remained still, waiting. And then he said a surprising thing, he said, ‘Do you love this man, Sarah, your husband’s brother?’
‘No, no, Father.’ Her reply was like rapid fire.
‘In no way, Sarah? You haven’t encouraged him to take a liberty with you?’
‘No, Father, no. I was a little afraid of him because I think I knew what he was feeling.’
‘And there was no answering response in you to this feeling?’
She waited before answering, and then said falteringly, ‘He’s a very attractive man, very virile. He’s…he’s unhappy with his wife, I know. I’ve felt…well, sorry for him at times. At times I wanted…I wanted to be kind to him. But no, Father, I’ve never encouraged him and…and I don’t love him.’ She could not say to the priest that there was some part of her that called to her husband’s brother and made her ashamed that this part would rear up like a wild animal at times, and these times usually occurred with the gentle loving of David. It was then that this part of her would long for a different loving, a wild, frenzied, mad loving, a kind of loving she sensed on the New Year’s morning when locked in John’s embrace. No, she could not say this to the priest because she was only barely conscious of it. The thoughts in your head while your man was loving you, and the thoughts that filled it for the rest of the day and night belonged to two separate beings. But when these two beings attempted to merge, as they sometimes did in the light of day, she was overcome by a feeling she had to flay, and flay it she did. She flayed it with her happiness, the happiness given to her by David. She flayed it with the gratitude she owed to David. She flayed it with the passionate love she had for her child.
The priest was talking now. He was saying, ‘You have been very silly, Sarah. You should never have given your father money in the first place.’
‘I couldn’t help it, Father. I knew he would have told my husband, and although David wouldn’t have believed him, not really, it would have caused a difference between him and his brother, and he’s very fond of his brother, they are very fond of each other. And then there was his mother. His mother doesn’t like me, and I knew that if she heard about this, life would be unbearable for us all. Then there was my sister-in-law, John’s wife. She’s an odd type of girl. Well, what I mean is, Father, she seems quiet, but she’s quarrelsome, hard. You see, I just had to keep my father quiet.’
‘When he comes out of hospital—you must stop praying that he won’t come out, Sarah, do you hear me?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Well, when he comes out you must tell him that you’re going to give him no more money, and if he becomes nasty you must tell him you are going to the police.’
‘But, Father!’
‘Listen, Sarah. You must tell him that. You must frighten him off. Whether you go to the police or not is up to you, but blackmailing is a serious offence and they’ll soon put him in his place. What you’ve got to realise is that he is undermining your health. You’ve lost a lot of weight, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, Father, two stone.’
‘Well, you can’t go on like that. You know what you should do, but you won’t do it. But I feel that your husband should know about this. What I have seen of him he is a very reasonable man. I like him, Sarah.’
‘Thank you, Father, but…but I couldn’t tell him.’
‘Well, leave it for a time until your father comes out of hospital, but in the meantime think about it seriously, think about confiding in your husband. Bring him down to me if you like and we’ll talk it over.’
‘I couldn’t, Father. There are too many complications.’
‘Well, you must do what you think best. And remember, Sarah, I’m always here if you should need me.’
‘Thank you, Father. I feel better now.’
‘Make a good act of contrition, Sarah.’ She came out of the confessional box and waited a moment and then the priest joined her; he walked with her to the door of the church and there, taking her hand in his, he said, ‘Nothing matters if your conscience is clear…Make that your aim in life, Sarah. Keep your conscience clear.’
‘Yes, Father.’ She inclined her head towards him. ‘Goodbye, Father, and thank you, thank you very much.’
‘Goodbye, Sarah.’
She walked quietly down the steps of the church, past the station, and down the Dock Bank. The Bank, as usual, was black with men, some talking in groups, some standing silently against the rails, just looking out of the hungry present into the hungry future. No longer were they on the lookout for the gangers with the hope of being set on a boat, because the gangers, too, were standing staring. Gone from the Bank was that notable measured stride of the burly, proud captains; the noticeable bearing of the arrogant chief engineers. No longer were there strings of coolies shopping on the Bank, their bass bags swelled with fish, their bare knees pointing upwards as their seemingly unbending feet left the ground. The colour, the excitement, had gone from the docks.
Sarah cast her eyes towards the Dock offices as she passed them. David was in there. She knew where he would be sitting, the exact spot, to the right of the main door where you went in, and her glance towards the grimed window next to the door was tender.
David was lucky; he was one of the envied ones, he was in work. As long as the docks were moving at all he w
as secure, and she was secure. But David didn’t give the docks credit of his security, he gave it to Mr Batty. He had once said to her when talking about the office, ‘He feels he’s tamed me…training me he would call it, so if there is any security in the job at all it’s that, just that. He hasn’t made life unbearable for me like he has for some. I feel he holds me up to himself as part of his success.’
‘And you don’t mind?’ she had said to him.
‘No.’ He had smiled at her. ‘Why should I? It pleases him and it doesn’t hurt me.’
That was David, the gentle way every time. Oh, she thanked God for David. She felt lighter, happier. Why hadn’t she gone to Father Bailey before? Oh, she wished she had.
It had stopped raining, so she decided to walk home, it would save the bus fare. She crossed over the road to the path that led under the dock arches. The arches were dark and dismal, the brickwork was as black as a singed bloater, and the water dribbled down the walls in rivulets of slimy green. But the arches left no impression on Sarah; they were part of the dismal whole, unseen, except on rare occasions, because of their familiarity.
The pavement bordered by the actual dock wall curved round by the bottom of Simonside Bank, the Bank which led into…the country, to the nice houses and Hedworth Hall and The Robin Hood and places like that. She hadn’t been up into the country for years. As she looked up the steep incline of the bank she said to herself, ‘I must start and take Kathleen for walks up there, away from the streets.’ They could do it on a Sunday afternoon; she would speak to David.
She was turning her gaze away when it was pulled back again. A man had just rounded the bend. He came striding down the road, his step quick and purposeful, and as she watched him raise his hand quickly then break into a run she turned her head away and groaned inside. Oh, no, no, not this morning. Then fear came upon her. She would have to walk all the way home with him. What if her father…She closed her eyes. She had forgotten, he was in hospital. The relief scuttled the fear from her being and she turned and looked towards John as he came running up to her.
The Blind Miller Page 21