The Bonny Dawn

by Catherine Cookson

  As he stood looking over the bay he sniffed, then turned his head to look back up the beach which here sloped upwards to a deep copse of trees, black now against the bright light. He had smelt the wonderful aroma of bacon frying. Someone was likely camping out in the woods up there. Glory, couldn’t he eat some of that!

  He turned about and quickly made towards the trees. The scramble up to them was nothing compared with the scramble down Stockwell Hill, for it was merely a gentle rise from the beach. When he entered the comparative darkness of the trees he stood blinking and sniffing for a moment. Whoever was there, he couldn’t expect them to dish out any of their bacon, but they might likely be good for a cup of tea. If they offered him one he wouldn’t say no. By lad, he wouldn’t! He hadn’t realised how hungry and thirsty he was.

  He followed the direction of the appetising smell, and it led him to the middle of the copse, then onward to its edge; and there, disappointed at not having espied a tent and campers, he stopped and looked towards the dark shape of the car parked on the verge of the trees. As he approached it he could see a woman sitting on a low camping chair with a plate on her lap, and a man sitting on the car step balancing a plate on his knee. A spirit stove, on which stood a tin kettle, was nearby, and the place around them was littered with objects that gave the appearance of a house without walls.

  ‘Good morning.’

  They both looked up at him and answered, ‘Good morning,’ and the man added, ‘And it’s a grand one too, isn’t it?’

  His voice was high. He was evidently not from these parts. Joe passed on, thinking, if they had offered him a cup of tea he wouldn’t have taken it. They looked slovenly, dirty, somehow.

  He arrived home to find his mother up and the breakfast set, and as he threw his cap on to the sofa and looked towards the table he exclaimed, ‘By lad! I’m ready for this.’

  Mary Lloyd turned from the stove to look at her son and asked, ‘Well! Where have you been this time?’ It was as if he had just been out for an hour’s stroll. With practice she was able to hide the fears that these midnight jaunts of her son created in her. It had been all right when he had gone along with his father, but even then she hadn’t cared much for them jaunting off in the middle of the night; yet she had made no adverse comment on the escapades; men were men and had oddities in them. If you were wise you respected the oddities, and it was made easier when you loved your man. But her husband and son jaunting off for walks in the middle of the night was a different thing altogether to the lad going alone. He had been at it for three years now, but she still could not get used to it and always experienced a sense of relief when he was home again. His going down the pit did not fill her with the same apprehension as did his midnight rambling; there were others down the pit, whereas on these ramblings he was alone.

  After Joe had washed his hands and face he returned to the kitchen and sat down with a flop on the couch. Putting his hands behind his head he lay back and let out a long breath as he said, ‘It’s a grand morning.’

  ‘Yes, it is a grand morning. It’s going to be hot. It’s hot already.’

  ‘There’s a breeze coming up; it’ll turn to a wind this afternoon, you’ll see. It’ll still be hot, though.’

  ‘Come on, sit up.’

  He pulled himself up with a jerk and took his seat at the table, but before he attacked the two eggs and three rashers of bacon reposing on the dinner plate he glanced quickly over the table as if for the first time he was noticing its shining quality. Everything seemed to be brighter this morning, or was it just him? No. The table was shining, and he realised that his home was a shining place. Always clean and spotless. His mother was clean and spotless too. As he chewed on a mouthful of rich-flavoured bacon, causing his digestive juices to fill his mouth so full he had to keep his lips closed while he ate, he looked towards his mother where she was standing pouring out the tea, and it came to him with a jerk of surprise that she was young, still young. She was thirty-seven, but she was still young. She had a nice figure. Perhaps her hips were a bit too big, but that was with sitting doing the dressmaking. She was a wizard with her needle and had done dressmaking for people for years. It had stood her in good stead after his dad had died. She was wearing a pink patterned dress, and again he thought, from her back view she could have been taken for a young girl. Even full-faced she could have passed for a young woman, until you looked into her eyes. They were blue and clear, but they had an expression in them that denied youth. Joe had noticed this before, but never questioned it further than to think his mother’s eyes were strained with the sewing and that she should give it up. But now he paused in his eating as she handed him a cup of tea. Although she was smiling at him, the look was still there and he could name it now: his mother was lonely. He hadn’t thought about her being lonely, for she was always so busy. Fancy, it had never struck him before. He seemed to be noticing lots of things this morning. It was as if he had lost a skin and was more sensitive than ever to the atmosphere about him. His mother was lonely. Had she always been lonely? He could always remember that look in her eyes. But his dad had loved her, loved her dearly, passionately should be the word, but he didn’t like to say that in connection with his parents. Yet she had always had that look about the eyes. Was it because his dad went roaming at night when his shift allowed? Maybe. He had never thought about it. Funny, he had just never thought about it. Had his dad thought about it, that his wife was lonely? He couldn’t have or he wouldn’t have left her. Not his dad. That was why she wanted to marry Mr Bishop, because she was lonely. To his own surprise he heard himself talking quickly, rapidly, leaning across the table to her as he did so. ‘I’ve been thinking’—although he hadn’t, but was merely releasing an emotional pressure—‘You go ahead and do what you want. Don’t mind me. I’ll be all right. Things’ll work out. You just go ahead and make your own arrangements and I’ll fit in.’

  She had stopped eating and was staring at him, and he watched the blue of her eyes become paler behind a mist, and her voice had a break in it as she said, ‘But…but you know it’ll mean leaving this house?’

  ‘Well, what about it? You’ve always hankered after a modern one. Now, you have.’ He nodded at her and laughed, trying to bring the subject on to a lighter footing. ‘Anyway—’ he bent his head over the plate and, taking up a forkful of food, chewed on it vigorously for a few moments before adding, ‘who knows, I might stay here meself.’

  ‘What d’you mean? Joe, look at me. What d’you mean?’

  He looked at her, his eyes twinkling. ‘I’ve got a girl.’

  ‘You’ve got a girl?’ Her voice was soft.

  ‘Yes.’ He put his knife and fork down and pushed his plate to one side, and hitching his chair towards the corner of the table so that his outstretched hand could touch hers, he said, ‘She’s nice, Mam. You know something? She’s nothing like you yet, but she’s goin’ to be, she’s goin’ to be. I know she is.’

  She smiled softly at him, the while shaking her head. ‘Is that a recommendation?’

  ‘Aw, go on; you’re only fishin’.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘But you’re only nineteen…Are you serious, Joe?’

  ‘Me dad married you when he was eighteen, remember? And I’ll be twenty in six weeks’ time. And yes, I’m serious, Mam. You know me. I’ve kept away from them ’cos I didn’t seem to be able to find the right one.’

  ‘But don’t you think you should go out with a number before…?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t. I don’t believe in that theory at all. That’s the theory of the high-fliers. I hear it down below every day. “Test and try, man,” they say. “Test and try afore you buy.” No, Mam; that’s not for me. And I knew as soon as I saw her; at least, not long after.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Brid Stevens.’

  ‘Brid?’

  ‘Short for Bridget. She said her mother had to call her Bridget after her mother-
in-law, Brid’s granny: her granny was buying the pram, and unless the child was called after her, no pram. She can be funny, she can’t tell a tale without laughing…she can be funny.’

  ‘Are you going to bring her along home?’

  ‘I’d like to, Mam.’

  ‘What about this afternoon?’

  ‘Fine, I’m meeting her along at the bay. We’re going to have a swim. We should be back here about four-ish. All right?’

  ‘All right with me.’

  They smiled at each other, and now Joe pulled his plate back towards him and continued to eat the congealing remains of his breakfast.

  As his mother stood up to pour out more tea she asked him, ‘Did you walk far?’

  ‘Quite a way.’

  ‘You tired?’

  ‘No; I’m as fresh as a daisy.’

  ‘I was thinking about going to church this morning, would you like to come?’

  ‘Oh lordy! Mam, I am tired.’

  As he lay back in his chair laughing, her hand came out and gently boxed his ear, and they both laughed. Then he said quietly, ‘No, Mam; count me out. I’ll come some time. As I said afore, I’ll go one of these mornings on the spur of the moment and I won’t know why. But, thanks all the same, not this morning. Fact is, I am tired…it’s true. Yes, honest. I’m done in. I’m going to bed and I’ll sleep until dinner time. Will you wake me around twelve? I want to be out by half-past one. All right?’

  ‘All right.’ As she passed him she touched his head softly and he put his hand up swiftly and caught her fingers and tightly squeezed them for a moment. It was a gesture that his father had been wont to make, and after it the kitchen was filled with a sweet, full silence. He went and sat on the couch and put his head back and yawned and stretched his arms. He was filled with joy, a new kind of joy: it was like a promise, a golden promise. A ray of sun shining through the kitchen window fell across his face and he took it as a seal on that promise. Life was to be full of light and wonder. This was living. This was loving, he thought as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

  His mother called him at twelve o’clock and he woke immediately to her touch.

  ‘Ossie’s been,’ she said.

  ‘Yes?…Oh, lord.’

  ‘He said for you not to miss the quarter to two bus. I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘I’d forgotten; but I didn’t promise him anything. I just said if I felt like it…And I don’t feel like it. Not today.’ He smiled shyly at his mother. ‘You mentioned nothing?’

  ‘No, not a word.’ She pressed her lips together as she gave him a confederate’s smile.

  ‘By, I’m glad of that. He would have chaffed the lugs off me all week. He’ll have to know some time, I suppose; though that can wait. But I didn’t want him to know so soon, for things aren’t settled yet. With me they are, but not with her…I sort of haven’t spoken. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean.’ She patted his shoulder and left the room, and immediately he got out of bed. There was no bathroom in the house, and after donning a pair of old trousers he went downstairs to wash in the scullery. When he returned to his room he selected his best suit, even though he knew he’d have it off before he saw her and that it would be lying on the rocks getting creased. But still, he would be fetching her home and the occasion demanded his best suit.

  At dinner his mother said jokingly, ‘If you’re going in the water you’d better not eat so much,’ and he replied on a laugh, ‘Why? I’ve never sunk yet. And never left a dirty plate, either.’

  Suddenly, as if her mind had never left the subject, she said, ‘Is she serious? I mean…well, you know what I mean, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, she dances the modern stuff, jive and all that, and makes up, and wears them stiletto heels, but she’s all right. I know she’s all right, Mam. Something tells me.’

  ‘Where did you meet her?’

  ‘At the club in South Scardyke.’

  ‘The club?’ There was a slight raising of his mother’s eyebrows and he put in quickly, ‘Yes, I know what you’re thinking; about the lot that goes there. She was among them but on the side, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Does she drink?’

  ‘Yes, coffee, and she likes it strong…Aw Mam, don’t worry, you’ll see her for yourself in an hour or two.’ He was detecting a change in his mother’s attitude, as if she had done a lot of thinking during the time he had been in bed and now was a little worried. But he wasn’t displeased with her attitude. It showed she wasn’t so taken up with her own affairs that she could let his slide. He said now, ‘Mind if I go?’

  ‘No; get yourself away. And I’ll have the tea on the table at half past four, mind.’

  ‘Half past four it’ll be, on the doorstep. You have the word of a Lloyd, Madam.’ He saluted her, and she laughed and pushed him away.

  He took up his jacket from the back of the chair and put it on and adjusted his tie, then asked, preening himself, ‘How do I look?’

  ‘No different from usual that I can see.’ She shook her head with mock primness, then added seriously, ‘But why you want to put your good suit on to go down to the beach puzzles me.’

  ‘Does it? Then, Mrs Lloyd, you’re dim. Goodbye, Mrs Lloyd.’

  ‘Oh, away with you!’

  He bent swiftly to her and gave her a rare kiss, and she remained still, making no more remarks. And he went out, closing the door quietly behind him.

  He strolled down the village street. It was quiet with a Sunday quiet that hits most places around noon: everyone was indoors eating. The houses in the centre of the village, the original part of Johnson’s Cross, looked mellow. They were all built of rough quarry stone, the colour of which time had blended to a deep thick cream. He liked the village; he wished he would never have to leave it. But then if…the ‘if’ presented the future to him, and he said to himself, ‘Well, I’ll just have to, won’t I?’ And the answer caused an excitement in his stomach and quickened his step, and as he took the short cuts across the fields to the beach, he almost skipped.

  When he came to the outskirts of the copse where he had seen the motorists breakfasting that morning, he stopped and looked at the ground, then exclaimed aloud, ‘By lad! You would think they would have the sense and decency to clear up after them. I bet that pair’s left their trademark across the country.’ He went on and was just about to enter the copse when the glint of something bright lying in the long grass to the left of him brought him to a stop. The glint was from the handlebar of a motorbike. He took a couple of steps out of his way and ascertained that, yes, there was not just one motorbike, there were three, and he muttered, ‘Bust it!’ for the motorbikes meant there were fellows already down in the bay. Well, whoever they were, they mightn’t stay long; perhaps they were just passing through and had gone down for a dip. Very likely they knew of this place. Of course they would have to know of it, for no-one passing this bit of woodland would think that just beyond lay the sea. People never thought of the sea until they saw it from the open ground. Well, he supposed, if the worst came to the worst the bay would be big enough for four people…five. Five, he reminded himself.

  Where the copse became more of a thicket, he saw the bundles of clothing. They were in three separate piles, yet similar, two pairs of black sailcloth trousers being identical. The sight of them brought a strange uneasiness to him.

  The sound of yelling voices brought him clear of the thicket to the top of the bank leading down to the beach, and there, picking their way tentatively on bare feet over the rocks towards him, were two of the Palmer gang, as he thought of Ronnie Fitzsimmons and Clarky Leach, with Sandy Palmer himself trailing behind. So taken up were they by the rough ascent that they did not become aware of Joe until they were within a few yards of him; and then it was Clarky Leach who, lifting his head, saw him first. He had been negotiating the rough gulley on all fours when, pretending to be a dog, he lifted his head backwards and sniffed; and it was then he saw Joe; and he stopped
in his crawling to exclaim on a high, reedy note, ‘Coo, fellas! Look who’s here!’

  Ronnie Fitzsimmons was the next to see Joe and he said, ‘It’s Joe.’ The reference could have indicated that he was welcoming a pal, but he then added, ‘Lloyd’ and it took away the seeming friendliness from his use of the Christian name.

  Sandy Palmer was standing on one foot extracting a piece of dry seaweed from between his toes when he heard the name, and his head shot up so quickly that he almost overbalanced. He stood staring up the rocky incline towards the slight, neatly dressed figure of Joe Lloyd…Joe Lloyd. All morning he had been thinking of Joe Lloyd. It was as if his thinking had conjured him up out of the air. His feelings remained stationary and numbed for a moment with surprise. Dinner time on a Sunday at the bay, and there he was all dressed up as if he were going into town. It seemed odd, very odd. It came into his mind that he might have been praying all the morning and his prayers had been answered. The surprise faded away, and the fury that had been raging in him, the fury that had driven him out of the house without his Sunday dinner returned, its force making him tremble. All morning he had wanted to smash into something, to hit out at something, to hurt something, to ease the gnawing ache inside him. He did not recognise it as an ache but as a desire to rend and tear. He had been in this state for three weeks, although the feeling had been nothing compared with what he had experienced today. He began to climb upwards towards the copse now, his body straight. His feet ignoring the sharpness of the rocks, he walked as straight as if he were lording it through the town with his hands in his narrow pockets.