That Forgetful Shore

by Trudy Morgan-Cole

  Sometimes, lying next to Jacob John in bed, scavenging through the ragbag of memory, she almost convinces herself that she remembers such a touch, that she felt ashamed and buried the memory.

  But in daylight, cooking porridge on top of the stove, she stirs the pot and brings up that memory, examines it again in the light of morning, and sees that it’s false. There never was such a touch, such a moment. Joe Bishop never spoke a word to her that was out of line. And really, when would he have had the time? She was hardly ever alone with him – it was either her and Kit, or Kit alone for lessons that Triffie wasn’t allowed to have.

  There is no such memory; nothing happened. She has only hearsay evidence. But it will have to be enough.

  “What a pleasant surprise, Triffie,” Joe Bishop says when she comes to his door with a jar of pea soup and a loaf of bread. It isn’t the first time. He is an unmarried man to whom they all owe a great deal, and the women of the community look after him. He is paid by the School Board, but he also gets paid in salt fish and jars of soup, in pies and loaves of bread. He says it’s a pleasant surprise, but surely it can be no great surprise to see Trif Russell at his front door. He welcomes her into the kitchen and moves the kettle to the front of the stove.

  “No, I won’t be staying for a cup of tea,” Trif says, nor does she sit down when he does. She stands with her arms crossed over her chest, as if she can hold herself together. Her heart hammers high up, almost in her throat. But she thinks of Katie Grace and it’s like putting on armour. The whole armour of God, that she may be able to stand against the wiles of the Devil.

  “Is there … something I can do for you, Triffie?”

  “I got something to say to you, Mr. Bishop.”

  The room is silent except for a clock on the wall, ticking away nearly half a minute before Joe draws breath and says, “Go on, then. Say what you came to say.”

  She has rehearsed and rehearsed, like a recitation, but there’s no rhyme or rhythm to carry her through this. “What you said – about Katie Grace. Her extra lessons.”

  He nods; a little tension drains from his face. “I meant what I said – I’m willing to do whatever I can to help her. She’s a bright girl.”

  “I know that. You don’t have to tell me she’s bright, and I want her to have the chances I never had. But I don’t want her staying after school for no extra lessons with you.” She’s usually careful with her grammar when speaking to teachers and ministers, but she can feel that caution slipping away under the wave of emotion rising inside her.

  His eyelids flicker, and she sees her own fear reflected in his eyes. He’s as scared of this conversation as she is, Trif realizes. That knowledge is power, like she’s holding a good hand of cards. Not that she ever plays cards, that being a sin.

  “Is it Jacob John?” Joe suggests. “Is he giving trouble about her getting an education?”

  A tiny spark of anger flares at that: the spark that will ignite the flame. “Mr. Russell got no problem with our daughter getting an education,” Trif says. “This is nothing to do with him – he don’t even know I’m here tonight. This is between you and me. I came to say that my daughter deserves an education, but she don’t deserve to be interfered with by some – some dirty old man.”

  Those last three words hit him like a punch in the gut, she can see. She feels punched too, like the air has gone out of her now that the words have been said. She’s glad to let them hang in the air a little while she steadies her breath.

  He’s not an old man – forty-five or fifty, no more than that. He’s always had a high forehead but the dark hair on it has receded back and back these last years till you’d have to say he was bald. But the fringe at the sides and back is not grey, and his face is less lined than Jacob John’s, though her husband is a good ten years younger. Indoor work, she thinks; nothing is wrinkled but Joe Bishop’s forehead and the lines around his eyes.

  Those eyes widen, then narrow at her words. Not an old man. But “dirty” – yes, that hits him, she can see.

  “I…don’t know what you’re saying. Are you accusing me of something?”

  “You knows damned good and well what I’m saying,” says Trif, who never swears. The word “damned” curdles on her tongue, but it feels right, all the same, sharp like a knife in the thick air of this room. Damned, no casual curse word but a very specific adjective with a meaning she won’t take back. Nor does she use the careful grammar she’s always reserved for conversation with her betters; she speaks as she would at home, in what she thinks of as her own voice. “I’m not spreading no rumours nor gossip – I’m talking about what I knows. What I’ve heard. Not from one woman, nor from two, but from plenty of others. I’m saying out loud what’s been known on this Point for years but never spoken out loud. What you done to them girls.”

  “What girls.” He doesn’t even put a question mark to the words, just drops them into the room like two stones.

  “Effie. Millicent. Amelia. Kit. And that’s not all.”

  “What have they told you?”

  “You know what they told me. You know what you did.” She keeps her gaze even, will not let herself look away. Years of reverence and respect for this man fight inside her but she will not back down, because she has a daughter.

  “I’m no – no child molester. I never –” She sees him searching for a word to say what he never did. He reaches into the language he knows best, books and poetry. “I never deflowered a girl, never violated anyone. I can’t believe you would accuse me –”

  “A girl can be violated without laying down on a bed, Joe Bishop. You laid hands on those girls, touched them, kissed them, said and did things that you know wasn’t right for a teacher to say and do to a young girl. You call yourself a Christian man, and you can sit there and say to me that what you did was all right? Do you really believe that?”

  Finally, he drops his eyes, breaks the connection between them. It’s a relief not to be looking into his eyes anymore but she doesn’t look away. When he looks up from staring at his boots, he’ll find Trif Russell is still there. In her mind she’s singing I shall not be, I shall not be moved. Like a tree planted by the waters.

  He rubs his hands on the legs of his pants, as if he were Pilate or Lady Macbeth without the benefit of a bowl of water. “I don’t say it was right, Trif. I know it was wrong. If you only knew – all these years, how I’ve tried –”

  “Tried what?” she says, when he gives up speaking.

  “To change. To make resolutions – to make amends.”

  “You tried to change. But you never did, did you? You didn’t stop. It’s still going on.”

  He nods, then shakes his head. “Not now – not – not for awhile. You can’t think – I mean, your daughter. I would never lay a hand on Katie …”

  “How is Katie any more valuable than Effie Dawe, or Amelia Snow, or Kit Saunders?” Trif says, raising her chin a quarter inch. He looks up again, to meet her eyes which will not be moved. “I’m sure you said about every girl you ever touched, that you wouldn’t never do such a thing. You said yourself – you tried to do better. But you never did. I’ve talked to enough women to know you never changed.”

  He is still shaking his head, but no longer as if to deny her words. Rather, as if in disbelief, either at what he’s become or at the fact that someone has finally challenged him. Trif is sure she’s the first person on the Point to speak of this aloud. Some women protested silently, like Millicent, slinking away from the promised lessons. Others took what they could and got out of there, like Effie and Kit, carrying their scars. But no-one has said to his face in twenty years, This is what you did, Joe Bishop. This is what you are.

  He tries to meet her eyes again but can’t. He looks at the kettle on the stove, at the loaf of bread his accuser brought him. “Who are you going to tell?”

  This is the part she has thought through most carefully, going over and over it in her mind. “There’s lots of people I can tell. The minister. The Sch
ool Board. Other parents.”

  “I should – do you want me to resign? Perhaps if I tendered my resignation, you wouldn’t have to tell everyone ... the reason why.”

  “And let you slink off to a job in some other school, some other cove?”

  “I wouldn’t –”

  “Don’t waste your breath on promises and lies. If you went away from here and kept it all secret, you’d bring the same thing down on another town, and leave us without a teacher. And you’re a good teacher, Joe Bishop.”

  He looks at her like he’s expecting more, but she lets her words lie there. Finally he says, “I promise, Triffie – if you don’t tell, I’ll put a stop to it.”

  “Prayers and promises won’t cut it,” she says. “All the resolutions in the world won’t do it, you know that.”

  “Then what do you expect of me?”

  “Short of a miracle from God – which I’ll pray for, believe me – only one thing ever changes a man,” Trif says.

  “What’s that? Love?”

  Trif snorts. “You’re after reading too many books. The only thing on earth that changes a man isn’t love – it’s fear. And you’re scared, I can see that. Scared of what I’ll say, who I’ll tell.”

  “You haven’t told anyone yet, have you?”

  “Oh, I’ll tell people,” she says. “Your secret’s not safe with me. But I don’t want you run out of town, neither. Here’s what I’m going to do, Joe Bishop, and here’s what you’re going to do.”

  He looks up at her, and she’s back in the classroom again, their roles reversed. She is up front laying down the law; he is wide-eyed, waiting to learn his lesson.

  “I’m going to tell every woman on the Point who has a daughter in school,” Trif says. “A good few have their suspicions already but they don’t talk about it, they’re ashamed. I’ll lay it out in the open for them when their daughters turn – nine or ten. Is that young enough?” She allows herself one look of pure disgust, at the thought that a child of nine could arouse his desire. “I’ll tell them that you have – a problem. That’s how I’ll put it, that you have a problem, you’re a sick man, and you shouldn’t be left alone with a young girl. And I’ll watch you like a hawk. One finger out of line, one hint that you’re up to your old tricks, and I’ll tell the minister, the School Board, and every man on the Point. All those women I talked to, they’ll back me up. Women like Effie Dawe and Kit Saunders are teachers themselves, well-respected. People will listen to them.”

  Joe looks at her like a man balancing on a single plank across a raging river. She wants him to have that look, to hold that tension for years, if need be. She has to keep him afraid, to keep the upper hand on him. Good teachers are hard to come by. If Joe is gone who knows what young fool they’ll send to Missing Point, or even if they’ll keep the high school going at all.

  “Do you still want me to give Katie extra help?”

  “Oh, indeed and I do. But not alone in the schoolroom. You’ll come by my house in the evenings and tutor her in my kitchen, and you can do the same for any other young girls that needs the extra help too – or boys either, for that matter,” she adds, an even darker suspicion crossing her mind.

  She is not triumphant about her evening’s work when she leaves Joe Bishop cowed and defeated in his house. Vanquishing an old enemy might have brought some pleasure; there’s no joy in bringing a hero to the ground.

  There’s no doubt he’s a wicked man, but no doubt he’s a good teacher as well. After turning it over in her mind for a few minutes as she walks home, Trif decides this isn’t as strange as it seems. Everything in the world involves a balance of opposites: the sea brings life and death; fire warms and destroys; love makes people happy and drives them to despair. It’s only a matter, Trif thinks, of caution, of keeping a dangerous thing within boundaries, to reap its benefits while shielding you from its dangers. Men build boats to take them out on the sea to fish, but also to keep themselves from being swallowed by the sea. Triffie has set up her own little defenses here now; it remains to be seen whether they will hold.

  At home, she tells Jacob John she has been to see Joe Bishop, bring him over some bread and pea soup. “Did he say anymore about Katie’s lessons?” Jacob John asks, his eagerness surprising her.

  Trif realizes she’ll need some explanation for this new arrangement. After a pause long enough to pour a cup of tea for herself she says, “He’s going to give Katie some extra help. I told him to come do it here, in the evenings, instead of keeping her after school.”

  “Oh? And why’s that now?” Jacob John’s tone is as even as it always is.

  “I don’t like the idea of her being up to the school all hours by herself. Don’t seem right for a young girl, to me, even though I wants her to get the lessons.”

  Jacob John often says Triffie worries too much over the children, and she expects that response now, but he only says, “Ah well. You’d know best about that, I s’pose.”

  That’s all she’ll say to him, but she is brimming to tell someone what she’s done, and there’s not a soul on the Point to whom she wants to confide this. She will speak to the other women with young daughters, but discreetly, measuring out her words. What she wants now is someone to whom she can tell the whole tale, including the heaving of her guts as she faced the man.

  She sits down to her table with pen and paper. She could write to Effie Dawe – but no, not with the kind of honesty she needs. There has only ever been one person she can write to like that – the person who returned her honesty with betrayal.

  Still, the words are there and they have to come out or they’ll fester inside her. Knowing she’ll never put it in the post, that she might even burn it, Trif takes the clean sheet of paper and writes:

  Missing Point

  October, 1925

  My dearest Peony…

  Kit

  KIT WAKES TO a rectangle of grime-encrusted sunlight spilling over the rumpled sheets that tangle her legs. In the disoriented moments between dreams and full wakefulness she’s sometimes unsure where she is, but when she closes her eyes to block out the sun she smells sweat and cigarettes. Before she opens her eyes again to see the dirty window facing a brick wall, her other senses remind her she’s in Leo’s room.

  This is the fourth or fifth night she’s spent here in the months she’s known Leo. They meet every few weeks, occasionally in public to attend a lecture and go to a café afterwards, sometimes alone here at his flat. It’s rare that she takes the risk of staying out all night, returning home in the harsh light of a Manchester morning. It’s an exotic pleasure to sleep beside him all night, to wake in the morning to hear him moving around in the other room, cooking eggs and brewing coffee.

  Most of Kit’s circle of acquaintances – still none of them can really be called friends, and she no longer has any great desire to make friends, now that she has secrets to guard – know of her unorthodox friendship with the Polish socialist. She has worked hard to make sure no-one ever suspects they are lovers. He has never been to her rooms, nor appeared as her escort at a dinner party or any such occasion. Surely if anyone suspected, the school governors would have had a word with her by now.

  Kit likes the unorthodox arrangement. Living a double life adds spice to her staid existence as a headmistress. She loves being with a man again, especially one who combines passion and tenderness as Leo does, but she enjoys not having to fit him into her daily existence.

  Leo is less content than she is, but then, he has a less contented nature. He is restless, not just for a workers’ revolution but for more of everything in life. Mostly he complains, as he does this morning over breakfast, that he wants more of Kit: he wants them to live together, to be lovers every night, to wake up in the same bed and eat breakfast together every morning.

  “That’s marriage you’re describing,” Kit points out when he gets on with this.

  “It doesn’t have to be,” he says, caught out for a moment, because he doesn’t believe in the i
nstitution of marriage.

  “What’s the difference? If a man and a woman love each other, live together, share a bed all the time – how is that different from marriage?”

  “Marriage is not about love. Marriage is about society, property, ownership.” Leo leans against the window of his room, lights a cigarette. His cigarettes are European, strong smelling, and Kit used to hate them but has grown to like the smell. She occasionally indulges in a cigarette herself when she’s at Leo’s – she doesn’t want the stink of tobacco in her own rooms – but she smokes Player’s, which Leo keeps in a tin at his place for her.

  “Marriage doesn’t have to be all those things,” Kit says.

  “Of course it does. Yours was, was it not?”

  Kit thinks for a moment. “I married for love,” she says.

  “Of course. You carefully fell in love with someone of the right social class, did you not?”

  “You make it sound so calculated.”

  “You were conditioned, molded, shaped every step of your life – first to find a man, because society assumes a woman cannot be alone, and then to find the right type of man,” Leo says.

  “And what about now? Now that I’m a widow of thirty-five, sleeping with a completely unsuitable man?”

  “Ahh, now you think you are old enough and independent enough to put the toe of your foot outside of society’s rules.” Leo laughs, sitting beside her at the tiny wooden table. The table is so small they can’t both sit at it without their feet tangling underneath. “But still, so very cautious. It must all be secret, or you lose everything. And as for marriage – if I cared about marriage, could you marry me?”

  Could you marry me? It’s hardly the same thing as Will you marry me, is it? Not a proposal, but a hypothetical question, which makes it much easier to answer.