The Solace of Sin

by Catherine Cookson

  Florence turned slowly from the stove and went and stood by Hannah; and she looked down at the table as she said quietly, ‘It’s all right, Hannah, it’s all right. I keep telling you it’s all right.’

  There was a short pause before Hannah, her lips working one over the other, muttered, ‘I’ll never forgive meself, and them so nice. If they don’t come I’ll die.’

  ‘If they don’t come, they don’t. We lived before we had their company up there and we’ll live again.’

  ‘But…but you like them up there. She’s a change, an’ your kind. I’ve shamed you, but more so I’ve shamed meself. I tell you I’d rather have cut me tongue out than…’

  Florence’s narrow hands fell onto Hannah’s shoulders and she pulled her round to face her, and they looked at each other. Then Florence said softly, ‘You know, Hannah, we never speak of this, but for your peace of mind I’ll tell you something…You’ve brought me much happiness, Hannah, happiness that I’d never otherwise have known.’

  The round eyes, lying deep in the sockets of the fat face, became misty, and Hannah said brokenly, ‘And much heart scald.’

  ‘We all have heart scald, and I have been amply repaid for any you gave me. Now’—her voice took on a brisk note, and her fingers tightened on Hannah’s shoulders, and bending towards her she said, ‘No more of this now; we haven’t time to rest on tears, talk and emotion. We know where we stand, we two, don’t we? We’re a family.’

  ‘Aye, we’re a family.’ Hannah’s voice was trembling. ‘An’ you have a fine family, Florence; every one of them’s a credit to you.’

  There was a tightness in Florence’s throat as she turned about and began bustling at the stove again. Only someone with Ireland deep in their bones and heart could have done that, passing the flesh of their flesh on to another in an effort to bring them comfort. To an outsider the gesture might have seemed naive in the extreme, but to Florence it was, and always had been, an act of heroism on Hannah’s part. Let those outside the house, in the hamlets, on the farms deep in the valley, in the villages and market towns the length and breadth of the county, let them have their say about the set-up at the O’Connors’ farm. Let them pity her—as they did—as much as they liked, but no-one of them would dare say a word against Hannah Kerry in her presence. Hannah had made life full and satisfying for her in a way that she would never have experienced had her marriage taken its natural course, for Sean’s love would, she felt sure, have gone the way of all men’s love; it would have cooled.

  Love, it is teasing, Love, it is pleasing,

  Love is a pleasure when it is new.

  But as it grows older and days grow colder,

  It fades away like the morning dew,

  ran the old ballad, and there were never words so true. At this stage of their lives there would have been only forbearance between them, whereas now he gave her a love tinged with adoration. No-one knew Sean O’Connor as she did, not even Hannah. No, not even Hannah. She knew he had no love for Hannah; he had used her to give him sons and daughters. He was kind to her; he would stand no-one saying a wrong word to her; but for love, he had none to give her. Yet Hannah loved him. That was the pull that had brought her back across the sea again, not only to see her children, but to see their father. One would have thought that these two from the same country, the same county, should have come together, for they were of like temperament: they never did today what could be put off till tomorrow; they had no money sense; they liked to sit and talk and laugh. Their wants were few, their pleasures simple, the height of them being an occasion such as tonight. But only the one had been attracted to the other, and that was Hannah’s cross. And when chided, as she sometimes was by the priest, as had happened the other day, she retaliated by going on a drinking bout, because only when in drink had she the courage to claim her family, because in doing so she inflicted pain.

  ‘Do you hear that lot?’ Hannah was pointing towards the room off the kitchen. ‘The Durham Light Infantry isn’t in it.’

  ‘Send them along to the other end to get cleaned up,’ said Florence hastily, ‘in case they should come upon them.’

  ‘Come on, away with you!’ Hannah stood at the connecting door. ‘Do you hear me, the lot of you, along the bottom end and wash yourselves, before I flivver you! An’ I want your faces shinin’ like spit on a barn door.’

  ‘Right down there?’ protested Barney.

  ‘Aye, right down there,’ said Hannah, grabbing him by the ear and pushing him towards the far door that led into the next cottage. ‘And you two,’ she yelled at Davie and Michael, ‘stop your carry-on this minute. If you want to brain each other do it outside.’

  ‘I’m not playin’ second fiddle to him’—Michael was pushing at Davie—‘I’m older than him.’

  ‘Second fiddle!’ Davie was choking with laughter. ‘You’re bloody lucky to be in the band at all, never mind second fiddle…’

  ‘What’s that?’ The voice behind them brought their sparring to a halt, and when the question was repeated, Davie looked up at Vincent and said under his breath, ‘It slipped out. But it was him; he’s always punchin’…’

  ‘I’m not, our Davie; it’s you. ’Cos you think you’ve got brains I’ve always got to play second…’

  ‘Both of you! You heard Hannah, didn’t you?’ They went past him now, with Joseph coming up in the rear, and they all grinned as they looked up at him, and Davie of the ready tongue said, ‘That’s your best suit, our Vin. Are we to have a ceilidh after, or…?’

  Vincent reached out and grabbed his young brother by the ear and pulled him forward, and lowering his face to the boy’s eye-level he said, ‘No, we’re not havin’ a ceilidh after, but I’ll tell you what we might have: we might have a session in the byre where I’d take somebody’s pants down and lather his backside for giving me his old lip. How about it?’

  Davie’s face stretched into a wide grin. ‘Aw, give over, our Vin. Look, leave go of me; in a minute the water’ll be so mucky I’ll have to start carryin’ again.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Vincent, quietly now. ‘You behave yourself at the table, mind; no fun and games with company here. You understand me?’

  ‘Aye, Vin.’

  Vincent pushed him away and Davie dashed after his brothers, and he, aware that both Florence and Hannah were staring at him, left the room without further words.

  At the outside door his father passed him, saying, ‘Three gallons she’s given us the day. We can’t grumble at that now, can we?’

  ‘No,’ said Vincent. He stood on the step and looked around the yard. It was filled with sounds; the sound of the generator behind the closed doors of the shed; the muffled grunts of the pigs; the quarrelling and clucking of the hens; the conversation of pigeons on the roof; the lowing from the cow byre. The combined sounds used to be as sweet to his ear as the sound of a symphony to a music lover.

  He watched Kathy enter the yard through the gap in the wall, and when she reached him he said, ‘Any sign of them?’ and she shook her head. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s early yet. Six, just turned.’

  ‘Did she say they would come?’

  He looked puzzled for a moment. ‘Mother sent Moira up yesterday and she came back with the message that they would be pleased to come.’

  ‘Hasn’t she been down since…since that night?’

  For a moment he didn’t answer, but then said, ‘She went back to their flat the day after and she…she didn’t return until the day afore yesterday.’

  ‘But Mother says she usually comes down every day for something or other. It’s funny she’s never shown her face since that night.’ Kathy jerked her chin upwards now. ‘Well, if that’s put her off she must have a weak stomach. That’s all I can say.’

  ‘That didn’t put her off.’

  Kathy turned and looked up at Vincent. He had his hands thrust deep in his pockets and was staring straight ahead, and she said, ‘You…you didn’t tell her about it?’

  ‘Yes;
if I hadn’t, somebody else would’ve.’

  ‘Oh, Vin, you’re mad.’

  ‘Aye, perhaps.’

  ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I had just finished telling her the bare facts when the boy came on the scene an’ I couldn’t go on.’

  ‘You just said…?’

  ‘I just said that…that I’d killed a fellow.’ He sighed. ‘And there was no time for further explanation.’

  ‘Well!’ Kathy’s face stretched and she shook her head slowly. ‘Candidly, Vin, I’m surprised she said she’d come at all. Oh, our Vin. You are a fool. Nobody as much as remembers the affair; it’s over and done with.’

  He looked down on her and his voice was quiet as he said, ‘Except Mr and Mrs Ridley.’

  After staring up at him she moved to his side and leant her head against his arm, saying, ‘Oh, Vin, Vin, don’t torture yourself any more. He asked for it. Everybody said so at the time.’

  ‘Aye, at the time; but people have a habit of changing their minds and opinions.’

  ‘Look’—she turned her face up to him—‘as soon as you get the opportunity tell them up there about it, the whole thing.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘No perhaps, Vin.’ She tugged at his arm. ‘You make yourself right with him. Have a chat with him.’

  ‘Him? No!’ He shook his head slowly, a look of surprise on his face. ‘You couldn’t talk to him, explain anything. Her, yes, but not him.’

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t like him. I didn’t from the first minute I saw him. He’s a big head, a nowt, really.’

  ‘That’s funny. Mother sees him in the same way, and so does Hannah; but Dad thinks he’s a nice chap.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know; but then he thinks most people are nice.’ As they smiled at each other, he lifted his hand and said, ‘Ssh! there’s somebody coming.’ There was a faint sound of voices from beyond the wall and through the opening appeared the guests. Vincent moved back into the sorting room and Kathy walked slowly through the dusk to meet them.

  They were all seated at the table: Florence at one end, Sean at the other; Constance sat on Sean’s right, and facing her sat Vin; next to Vin was Moira, and next to her Michael; then came Kathy and Jim Stapleton; on Florence’s left sat Hannah, and next to her and opposite Kathy was Peter; Davie and Joseph filled in the space between him and Constance.

  They could scarcely see one another because only the firelight illuminated the room, but everybody seemed to be talking at once. Then Sean’s voice, rising above the din, called, ‘Now have you all got something in your glasses?’

  To this there came a chorus of, ‘Aye. Yes, yes.’ Then Sean’s voice again. ‘Well, Vin, we’re ready.’

  Vin rose from the table, took an electric bulb from a shelf on the dresser. Then, reaching up, he fitted it into a socket protruding from the wall.

  And then there was light.

  ‘Hurray! Hurray!’ The boys were bouncing up and down in their seats.

  Sean had his glass held high. ‘Drink! Drink, all of you!’ he cried, ‘to a miracle, Vin’s miracle.’

  Edison himself scarcely received such acclaim as did the solitary electric bulb and the man who had run the wire into the house.

  ‘A miracle indeed!’ Vin’s reply was scornful, but he smiled as he raised his glass with the rest, and Constance, looking him straight in the face for the first time since his words had awakened her into a new awareness, answered the smile, if tentatively.

  ‘I think I’d rather have the lamp,’ said a voice.

  The babble of voices faded away to hear Sean demand, ‘What’s that you say, Moira?’

  Moira, her eyes screwed up, was staring over her shoulder at the bulb and she looked towards her father now, saying, ‘I would rather have the lamp, Dad.’

  ‘I thought that’s what you said. There’s gratitude for you.’

  ‘Well, it’s softer, sort of.’

  ‘Of all the ungrateful…!’

  ‘She’s right.’ Vincent was nodding down the table at his father. ‘She’s absolutely right; give me the lamp any day in the week.’

  ‘It only wants a shade.’

  They all looked at Constance, and she smiled as she said, ‘That big carboy in the storeroom would make a lovely lamp with a nice shade on.’

  ‘The big wicker bottle, you mean?’ Hannah was bending forward over the table looking towards Constance.

  ‘Yes, Hannah; the wicker-covered bottle.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘Yes; they make lovely lamps.’

  ‘Well, now; well, now, that’s an idea. Isn’t that an idea?’ Hannah looked across at Jim, and he, finding an opening at last, took hold of the conversation.

  ‘For myself’—he inclined his head towards her—‘I don’t think it would be suitable for this kind of house. I would…well’—he now put his head to one side—‘I think two wrought-iron standard lamps, one at each side of your big fireplace there’—he nodded towards the open grate—‘would be more in keeping. You want to keep things in character.’ He now gave Kathy the benefit of his smile. ‘Lamps or ’lectricity, for you?’ He stressed the ’lect’ and she laughed back at him and said, ’Lect-tricity for me every time, mister.’

  Jim received this rejoinder as if it were pure wit, and as he laughed outright Peter stared at him from across the table, until Hannah, nudging him with her elbow, asked, ‘Have you ever had suckling pig?’

  ‘Suckling pig? No, no; I never have.’

  ‘Aw well, you’re in for a treat.’ Hannah was now on her feet standing behind his chair, and the next minute she made him jump by letting out a bellow, crying, ‘Which of you want your Yorkshire with gravy, and which with milk?’

  There was a confused babble from the children and she counted heads as to their taste, stopping at Joseph and pointing to him, saying, ‘You want it with gravy! But you always have it with milk. You’re the bloke that never changes.’

  ‘Well, you asked me, didn’t you?’ He cocked his face up at her.

  ‘Yes, I know, but what’s made you change, the night?’

  ‘Just ’cos you asked me.’

  ‘I’ll ask you all right. Begod! I will.’

  The whole family of O’Connors were laughing at some particular joke not understood by the guests. Even so, Constance joined in, as did Peter, but Jim’s face remained straight.

  ‘You’re sure, now?’ questioned Hannah further. ‘Don’t let me put it on, then you go and say—’

  ‘Just give it to him, Hannah,’ said Florence; ‘you know he’s having you on.’

  ‘Havin’ me on, is he? I’ll swipe the hunger off him if he’s havin’ me on.’ She flapped her hand at him.

  Florence now turned to Jim and said politely, ‘Excuse me,’ then rose from the table and went to the oven, from which she brought out a huge dish on which lay a complete suckling pig, surrounded by roast potatoes, braised carrots, onions, and parsnips, and as she laid it before her husband she turned to Hannah, who was standing by Constance’s side, and said in a whisper, ‘Perhaps Mrs Stapleton doesn’t care for Yorkshire either way, Hannah.’

  Constance had never had a meal preceded by Yorkshire pudding, with or without gravy, or milk, but if it were only to please Hannah she said, ‘Yes; yes, I would like some, Hannah. What do you recommend? Gravy?’

  ‘Aye, it’s best with gravy. The young ‘uns like it with milk, some of them …’ She cast a glance up the table, which caused more laughter.

  ‘Then I’ll have it with gravy. Thank you, Hannah.’

  ‘And you, Mr Peter’—Hannah was bending over Peter—‘gravy or milk?’

  ‘With gravy, Hannah, please.’

  ‘And Mr Stapleton?’

  ‘Not for me, thank you, not for me; I’m…I’m looking forward to that’—he nodded to the dish in front of Sean—‘I don’t want to spoil it.’

  ‘Aw, Florence’s Yorkshire won’t spoil a meal.’ But she
did not press him, as she had done Constance, and soon they were all supplied with a plate on which reposed a large portion of Yorkshire pudding floating in either milk or gravy.

  To her end of the table Florence now carried a ham that resembled a porcupine, for skewered all over it were chunks of roast pineapple resting on orange rings; and this dish did bring an exclamation of admiration from Jim. The air of condescension that was underlying his thin air of cheerfulness vanished for a moment and he said, ‘That looks marvellous! I’ve never seen one done like that before.’

  ‘Wait until you taste it,’ cried Hannah. ‘Nobody can do a fruit ham like Florence.’

  ‘Be quiet, Hannah, and get the vegetables.’

  As Florence and Sean carved, Vincent went round the table filling the glasses from an unlabelled bottle. When he came to Constance he said, ‘It’s peach; my mother makes it.’

  She tasted it, then said, ‘It’s lovely; and very potent.’

  ‘Aye, it is that,’ put in Sean, now handing a plate down the table and calling as he did so, ‘Do you like stuffing, Peter?’

  ‘Yes,’ Peter called back; and Sean, bending his head towards Constance, said, ‘The tree they come from must be all of fifty years old. And that’s another miracle; it growing here. But it’s sheltered in the corner of two walls and it gets good feeding, and what sun there is falls on it full. Oh aye, them peaches are another miracle. An’ there’s nothing like their brew for relaxing the nerves and warming the heart.’

  Constance was endorsing in her mind all that Sean was saying because, of a sudden, she was feeling relaxed. She could look at Vincent without that queer tightening of her stomach muscles; she could even look down the table and see Jim entertaining his end of it, making them laugh, and not think, as she had done when she heard him discoursing on wrought-iron standard lamps, of what they would have said if they had heard his opinion of them, spoken in no small voice, a few minutes before they left the house up above: Why the hell did they have to go down to that series of shacks with that lot of gypsies? That was his opinion of the O’Connors, and without his having the knowledge either of Hannah’s place in the household or of Vin’s confession. What his reactions would be when he found out, she didn’t dare to think. Well, he wouldn’t find out from her, or from Peter, the part he knew.