The Solace of Sin

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘For the simple reason that to all intents and purposes my father has two wives.’

  She blinked. And now she did take her gaze from his, and, walking to a chair, she sat down, saying, ‘Won’t you take a seat?’

  He turned from the couch and sat on a straight-backed wooden chair that was set against the wall near the window. He looked like someone sitting in a waiting room and she was forced to say, ‘Oh, please, not there. Make yourself comfortable.’ She pointed to the chintz-covered chair to the side of the fireplace, but he said, ‘This’ll do me.’

  Then he asked abruptly, ‘Do you want to hear about it?’

  ‘Oh!’ She was blinking again. ‘It’s as I said, it’s—’

  ‘I know, I know.’ He nodded his head sharply at her. ‘It’s none of your business. But I want to put things straight, put them right in your mind, because they concern my mother.’ He now put his hand up and ran his fingers through his hair; then said, ‘This is where the explaining starts…Hannah, as you have already guessed, is my mother, but she’s not my father’s wife. And we’ve always called his wife Mother, even…even when we knew she wasn’t, because that’s the way they wanted it, the three of them. It was rather…’ He now rubbed first one side of his chin and then the other with the palm of his hand, and he looked towards the stone fireplace before he went on, ‘It was this way. My mother was a Wheatley. The Wheatleys were of good standing in these parts. The place below didn’t always look as dilapidated as it does now. There was a good farm attached at one time, and they had enough money to build this house and set up their large families in good careers. They all had big families, all the Wheatleys. Right up to my grandfather and grandmother; they only had one, and she was Florence…It’s funny but I always think of them as my forebears, yet I haven’t a drop of their blood in me. But so that it won’t be more confusing still, I’ll refer to them as if they were my kin. When Florence was young the Wheatleys weren’t as prosperous as they had been, but they sent her away to school to be educated. She was sixteen when her mother died and she came home to look after her father. And she was only eighteen when he went, and there she was alone, but for the farmhand, Sean O’Connor.’ He wetted his lips and stared at her for a moment in silence before going on: ‘Sean was only two years older than Florence; he was a good-looking man in those days, I’m told, and amusing, as he still is; and what was more, he was a great reader. If he had been as good at his work as he was at his reading, the place would have been paying today. But there’—he moved his head slowly—‘if that had been the case she’d likely never have taken a fancy to him. Anyway, he was someone to look after in the short winter days, and someone to talk to during the long winter evenings, and she fell in love with him and he with her, and they were married. And you could say that they almost lived happy ever after. Yes, in spite of everything…’ His voice trailed off but his eyes still held hers; his face had that granite look about it again.

  She said softly, ‘You…you needn’t explain any further; it’s perfectly all right, Mr…Mr O’Connor.’

  He stared into her eyes until she became embarrassed; then quite abruptly he said, ‘I haven’t explained anything yet; I haven’t come to Hannah. She, Florence, lost her first child. She had to have it taken away, and after that she knew she would never bear another. She was very ill at this time. It was then that my father sent over to Ireland for a distant relative of his, Hannah Kerry. Florence and she got on very well, but the need for children was with Florence…and my father, and whether they planned it or not I don’t know, but he became close to Hannah and’—he looked sideways for a moment—‘I was conceived.’

  He now dropped his hands between his knees. ‘When I was born, Florence stipulated one thing: I must be given their name and I must look upon her as my mother…Then Kevin came and…and I think Florence rebelled, because Hannah went back to Ireland and didn’t return for ten years. Then it started all over again. I…I think by this time Florence had become a very wise woman; that’s all the explanation I can give for her acceptance of the situation. You know the rest …’ He waved his hand back towards the window. ‘The results are running wild; and strangely enough they’re all happy. I don’t think you’d find a happier family if you searched the countryside.’ He paused and moved his head slightly, then said, ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes. That…that is what struck me when I first met you; I mean, the family; you all seemed very happy; well, certainly free.’

  ‘They’re free, all right.’

  ‘Do the children know?’

  ‘Yes; they were told at an early age and they have accepted it. And the strange thing about them is they all still look on Florence as their mother. It was different with Kevin and me, for we were brought up by Florence alone. But we, too, accepted the situation, for we loved Hannah. We all love Hannah, and she knows it…But at times it’s not enough for her, like today, and it just needs someone like Father Shelley to lift the lid. It must be two years ago since he cornered her, and the same thing happened. She hasn’t been a practising Catholic for years; nor has my father, nor I. Kevin kept it up, and the children go to a Catholic school. I’ve little time for priestly patter and less when I see what effect it can have on Hannah, although she professes not to care for God or man. But her conscience starts working overtime when they get at her. Not that Father Bateman—he’s the one that usually visits—not that he ever speaks to her unkindly; but this one, instead of being in today’s priesthood, he should have been in the Inquisition.’

  When he stopped speaking she found she had nothing to say, and there was silence between them; and she was relieved when she heard Peter call from the kitchen, ‘Shall I make the coffee, Mother?’

  She called back, ‘Yes; yes, do, Peter. And bring an extra one for Mr O’Connor.’

  ‘You…you won’t let it make any difference in your attitude?’ Vincent’s hand was pointing towards the window.

  ‘Of course not.’ Her face was straight.

  ‘If you’re here long enough, you’ll hear things from time to time.’

  She smiled slightly now. ‘I doubt it, not right up here.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. There’s a bush telegraph that operates in this land; its wires run through every pub in every village; but it doesn’t always get the messages clear.’

  He rose to his feet abruptly now and walked to the mantelpiece. Resting his elbow on it and one foot on the raised hearth, an attitude that was so natural he must have done it thousands of times, he stood staring at his carving. He appeared to be so at home standing there that it was almost embarrassing. Constance was turning towards the kitchen door and hoping that Peter would soon bring in the coffee when, with his eyes still on the carving, Vincent said, ‘There’s something else you should know; one more thing. If…if I don’t tell you, you’ll hear it through some other channel. It could be the bush telegraph or the grocery cart, or on market day, or even from a hiker on the fells. They might say to you, “Where does that big fellow live, the stone-faced fellow, who killed that bloke, you know?”’

  As her mouth fell open and her eyes stretched, her heart seemed to jump against her ribs with the impact of his words. He was still standing in the same nonchalant position, but his head was turned towards her now and he was saying softly, ‘They could easily ask that of you; it has been asked before. Time seems to make no difference…You see’—he brought his arm down to his side and his foot onto the rug and, turning and facing her, he said, ‘I once did time for killing a man.’

  As her fingers slowly grasped at her dress where it made a hollow in her lap, Peter came in from the kitchen carrying a tray on which stood three cups of coffee. He was wearing his dressing gown; his hair was wet and his face looked bright and very young. He said, ‘Oh! That was lovely…Oh, I’ve forgotten the sugar.’ He put the tray down on the table at the head of the couch and went back into the kitchen, and as he did so Vincent O’Connor took a step from the fireplace and, leaning hi
s body towards her, said under his breath, ‘For God’s sake don’t be afraid of me, there’s nothing to be afraid of. I…I just thought I’d better tell you. I’ll explain…I’ll explain some other time.’

  ‘There you are.’ Peter had the sugar basin in his hand. ‘Do you take sugar, Mr O’Connor?’

  ‘No; no, thank you.’

  ‘You’re like Mother; she doesn’t, either. It’s poison to me without sugar.’ He handed the cup to his mother and for the first time during the last few minutes he looked at her face; then, as he handed the cup to Vincent, he looked at him, and as he said to him, ‘I hope it’s not too strong for you,’ he thought, Now what? They both look strained.

  ‘Thank you. I like it strong.’

  The coffee was almost scalding hot, but Vincent drank his almost immediately, standing while he did so. Then putting the cup and saucer back on the tray, he said, ‘I’ll be getting back, if you don’t mind.’

  Constance rose to her feet but did not speak, and Vincent, looking at Peter, said, ‘Thank you for being such a help tonight. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t found her; she doesn’t usually come by that road.’

  Peter jerked his head, indicating it was a mere nothing.

  ‘Goodnight.’ He was looking at Constance, and she, looking back at him, answered, ‘Goodnight.’ And when he had gone, closing the door quietly after him, she went and sat down on the couch and said, ‘Get me a drop of brandy, Peter, will you?’

  ‘Brandy? Are you feeling faint?’

  ‘Yes; yes, a little.’

  When he returned with the brandy, he dropped onto his knees beside the couch and, holding the glass to her lips, said, ‘You look like death. What is it? Something he told you about Hannah?’

  ‘No, no…Oh, I suppose so. It…it was rather a shock.’

  ‘Oh Lord! Mother, don’t be so stuffy. Look, you won’t let it make any difference to…to your going down there?’ He seemed anxious that it shouldn’t.

  ‘Oh no.’ She shook her head.

  ‘You know.’ He looked away from her. ‘You know, it’s funny, but it doesn’t matter a damn to me, not in the least, I mean, Sean O’Connor having, as it were, two wives.’

  And that, when she had time to consider it, she knew would appear odd, for did he not hate his father practising the same game? Yet there was a difference; Mr O’Connor’s weakness lay with a woman, not immature girls.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing; I…I was only thinking.’

  She pulled herself up on the couch and drained the last of the brandy from the glass. She knew she had muttered Vincent O’Connor’s words aloud, but Peter hadn’t caught them. She turned her head and looked towards the mantelpiece and the carving, and all of a sudden she felt sick, and afraid; very afraid, with a new kind of fear. And it wasn’t because Vincent O’Connor had admitted to killing a man.

  PART TWO

  One

  It was a week later when the O’Connors celebrated the installation of electricity in the house. As yet, it consisted of a solitary bulb hanging from a cable attached to a bracket inside the kitchen door, but to all of them it was as exciting as if they had struck oil right in the middle of the yard.

  Vincent came out of the shed where the generator was installed; he was wiping his hands on an old rag and he looked across the yard to where his father was leading The Duchess into the byre for her afternoon milking. The boys were scattered about the yard doing their chores: Joseph at the chickens, Davie humping wood, and Michael taking swill to the pigs. Kathy and Moira were inside helping with the tea, a grand meal that was not only meant to celebrate the electricity but to show the folks up above what a real Northumberland spread was like.

  Vincent went into his workshop and, throwing the piece of rag onto the bench, sat down on a wooden stool and, out of habit, took up a knife and began whittling at a piece of wood. After a moment his hands became still and he looked down on them. He should get changed, he supposed; his mother would expect it. But what would…she up there expect? Nothing. Nothing. It wouldn’t matter to her how he was dressed. Why had he told her? They were getting on all right; soon they would have been able to talk, at least he to her. She, it would seem, found no difficulty in talking to anybody, but from now on she would find great difficulty in talking to him. Why hadn’t he gone up and explained? He could have done so any day during the past week. Why in the name of God had he told her in the first place? On top of the other, it was too much for anyone to stomach. Aw, what did it matter, what did it matter, anyway? He pushed savagely at the half-chipped piece of wood on the bench and it slithered along the surface to come to rest against the edge of the polisher. It was the best thing after all; it had killed the seed before it had had time to fertilise. He was mad; he had been mad for the last month. He wished to God she had never seen the house. But now she mightn’t like the flavour of her neighbours and it was more than likely she’d disappear back into town for the winter. Then, come the spring, he wouldn’t be surprised if she sold the place. Well, perhaps that would be the best thing.

  He looked about the workshop, admiring the newly acquired machinery. Once upon a time he could, if he had wished, have broken away, but it was too late now. In selling the house he had forged one more chain around himself, for now he would be expected not only to support them but to make them rich. He sighed and the tension in him seeped away…Rich. If he managed to clear fifteen pounds a week they would consider themselves rich. It didn’t take much to satisfy them, and up to a few weeks ago that’s all he had wanted to do. But now…He rose abruptly.

  As he went through the storerooms he heard Florence saying, ‘That’s about the last, I think;’ and when he walked into the kitchen she turned to him and said, ‘Oh, there you are; I was just going to send for you. You’d better get changed.’

  Kathy, standing at the sink, asked, ‘Are you wearing your dinner suit or just going lounge?’

  He thrust his fist out and tapped her gently on the chin; then after sluicing his face he turned to her and said thoughtfully, ‘There’s Great-Grandad’s kilt still in its box; I was wondering if the occasion warranted it.’

  Kathy’s laugh filled the room and she thrust her face up to him. ‘I bet you wouldn’t dare!’

  ‘Well’—he scrubbed at his neck with the towel—‘it all depends on the size of the bet.’ She laughed again; then said, ‘Do you think they’ll come?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh’—she smoothed back her hair—‘after what I heard about the other night.’

  ‘That won’t make any difference to them.’ It was Florence speaking.

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’ Kathy walked to the fireplace, and Florence said, ‘Why should it? Anyway, she’s accepted.’

  ‘She’s a bit starchy.’

  ‘Starchy? I wouldn’t say she’s starchy.’

  Both Florence and Kathy turned towards Vincent. He was hanging the towel on a hook to the side of the sink and with his back to them he said, ‘Him now, the husband. Well, I can imagine him getting high-handed and picking his company, but not her, or the boy. At least, I don’t think he would.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve no need to wonder about…the boy; he’ll be here.’ Kathy had her head on one side, and Florence, looking at her, said, ‘You’ve seen him again?’ For answer Kathy just nodded, but did not speak.

  ‘Well, well.’ Vincent was smiling as he walked down the room between the long, laden table and the fireplace, and again he put out his fist and gently punched Kathy, then asked, ‘Is it his car, or him?’

  ‘Oh!’ She tossed her head and said candidly, ‘At the present moment the car’s got it; it’s a great saving in bus fares. And he always stands me a coffee. That’s another saving. And on Wednesday it was a fair sized tea, brown bread and white.’ She nodded solemnly, and on this they all laughed.

  After Vincent had left the room, Kathy walked to the table and, running her finger round the edge of a plate, said, ‘He�
�s funny, you know, Mother. He’s so proper that you could laugh. But…but I don’t.’ And she glanced at Florence, who, standing stiff and still now, said, ‘And I hope you don’t, Kathy!’

  ‘Well, I said I didn’t.’ Kathy shook her head. ‘But he’s always bobbing up and down if anybody comes up and speaks, and pulling doors open for you. Not that I don’t like it, but…but it sort of stands out, especially in a coffee bar where they all know you.’

  ‘I can only think that’s all to the good. With the majority of them looking a cross between ancient Britons and Druids with their long hair and Adam’s apples, I should think he would stand out.’

  Kathy’s laugh again filled the kitchen, and Hannah, coming down the narrow stairs which led directly into the room at the far end, shouted, ‘What’s this I’m missin’?’

  ‘Oh’—Kathy turned towards her—‘Mother’s just said that the boys today look like a cross between ancient Britons and Druids.’

  ‘And begod! She’s not far wrong. The last time I was in Hexham there was one who stepped off into the road and nearly under a car, an’ I said, “Be careful there, lass,” and he turned an’ looked at me, an’ begod! I was so flabbergasted I couldn’t even laugh.’

  ‘And neither did he, I bet,’ said Kathy.

  ‘No, no, of course he didn’t. If you’re not sure of your sex, it reacts like a restrainin’ factor on you. Stands to reason.’

  Smiling quietly, Florence said, ‘Go and get them all in, Kathy, and see they’re cleaned up. And tell your father to come along.’

  Kathy went to do Florence’s bidding, the while Hannah, as Vincent had done, walked down the side of the table, saying, ‘Aye, it looks grand, Florence, grand. And that smell; was there ever such a smell in the world as roastin’ suckling pig? I bet they’ve tasted nothing like it. Nor your ham.’ She continued her walk, round the end of the table and up the other side. ‘Everything looks lovely; it’s going to be a grand night. There’s nobody can set out a spread like you, Florence.’