The Most Precious Thing

by Bradshaw, Rita

  His arm came round her and he pulled her close into his side. ‘Now you get to sleep, lass, an’ don’t worry, all right? I’m not havin’ you make yourself bad over this. Whatever’s wrong with the bairn I’ll sort it.’

  Joan made no answer to this, but she reached up and kissed the stubbly square jaw before lying quietly again.

  Don’t worry, he said, and there was him beside himself. There had been plenty who’d said she could do better than Sandy McDarmount when she’d started walking out with him - her own mam and da included - but none of them saw the man she knew.

  True, she’d come near to braining him with the frying pan on occasion when he was well-oiled and playing the goat, but he wasn’t a drinker like some she could name. The trouble was, Sandy only had to have a pint or two to be falling over and the drink always made him silly.

  She knew plenty who could sit down and drink all night and then get up and walk out of the door as though they’d been supping water, or others who regularly got so drunk they couldn’t speak. They’d stagger home, flopping down on to the hearth, there to sleep right through until the buzzer sounded for the next shift, often with their bairns stepping over them where they lay. Nothing was said about them of course, because ‘they could hold their drink’. Her lip curled in the darkness. How she hated that phrase. A man could come home and knock ten bells out of his wife and bairns, but because he hadn’t made a fool of himself outside, that was all right. Well, she wouldn’t swap her man, not for all the tea in China she wouldn’t. He was all heart, was Sandy, in spite of playing devil’s faggarties at times.

  She’d seen him give his last bit of keepy-back money he’d earmarked for baccy to the ex-soldiers who’d been too badly injured to get a job after the war, and who came round the doors selling bobbins of thread and bootlaces. And only she knew how it affected him when he recognised one of the blind ones who walked up and down queues playing battered old fiddles or mouth organs as ex-comrades from his early days down the pit, along with the ones with no legs who sat on mucky pavements outside the theatres, drawing pictures of animals and birds and scenes from the Bible with chalk.

  Sandy stirred beside her. ‘You reckon our Renee might wheedle it out of the bairn if you have no joy?’

  ‘Renee?’ Joan blinked, striving to keep her voice matter-of-fact when she said, ‘She might. Aye, she might at that. I’ll put it to her the morrer if I get nowhere.’ By, he must be worried to suggest bringing Renee in, normally the mere name of their eldest was like a red flag to a bull, Joan thought, her brow wrinkling in the darkness.

  And it was this last which guaranteed she lay awake with her mind buzzing until dawn was breaking.

  At the other end of the street, David, too, was enduring a sleepless night. Strangely, it wasn’t the fact that he’d walked the streets with his father for over two hours before he could persuade him to return home which was now keeping him tossing and turning, or that Alec had still been awake when he’d entered the bedroom he shared with his brother, and in the resulting row - albeit in low, hushed voices - they’d both said unforgivable things. Rather it was the memory of how Carrie had looked in the few brief minutes before she’d left that had really disturbed him.

  He hadn’t seen her since the night of the wedding, and there had been little of the laughing-eyed, high-spirited girl he’d known all his life in the white-faced figure standing so quietly in the sitting room. Even allowing for his mother’s barbed tongue and what might have gone on before he and his father and Alec had entered the house, his gut feeling was that something was terribly wrong with the lass.

  His heart was thumping against his ribs, causing his breath to catch in his throat as yet again - as he’d done hundreds of times in the last weeks - he grappled with the events of that night before Christmas. He was certain now that something major had happened to Carrie. He would make sure he had a word with Lillian tomorrow before she left for church with his mother and find out exactly what had occurred at the market. His sister had spoken of Carrie being bad, but that could mean anything. He might even accompany the women to church, depending on what Lillian revealed, even though once he had started work he, like his father and brothers, only attended Holy Trinity on high days and holidays. But Carrie would be there, and it might be the best chance he’d have to take her aside for a minute or two.

  A thought was hammering at the edge of his mind, a possibility he’d kept at bay by sheer willpower the last weeks because to give it free rein was unbearable. Now, as his muscles tightened in his limbs, so taut he could feel cramp beginning to work in one leg, he forced himself to relax. He loosened his joints one by one and breathed deeply, emptying his mind of everything but the physical state of his body.

  It was proving to be a long night . . .

  Chapter Five

  It was beginning to snow as David stood outside Holy Trinity church the next morning, the flakes of white sharp in the keen north-east wind and the ground frozen rock hard beneath his feet. He could see Carrie some yards away standing with her mother and the twins, but as convention demanded he was in a group of men which included her father and brother, and the subject of conversation was the usual one - that of the anticipated fight involving the unions against the government and the coal-owners.

  David had intended to walk past the men as he exited the church but Sandy had caught his arm, drawing him into the circle. After Carrie had told her father that he had had nothing to do with getting her drunk on sloe gin the day of Walter and Renee’s wedding, Sandy had come to him cap in hand, and ever since had been at pains to make sure their relationship was back on its old comfortable footing. It was proving an irritant.

  ‘I tell you, lads, if the government thought they could get away with passin’ a law to prevent workin’ men an’ women gettin’ educated an’ thinkin’ for themselves, they would,’ Sandy was saying militantly. ‘What say you, David?’

  David nodded perfunctorily. If Carrie moved away from her mam, even for a minute, he’d go over.

  ‘The owners have made up their minds to crack down on us: the writin’s been on the wall for years. With them so-an’-so’s in Japan an’ America an’ the like producin’ cheaper than us, our industries should have pulled their finger out an’ come up with better or different, but what have they done? Gone on in the same way but demandin’ we accept reduced wages an’ increased hours so their profits aren’t cut, an’ safety is their last consideration. Luxury, that’s become.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right there, man.’ Another miner joined in, his rough-hewn, pockmarked face red with indignation. ‘An’ you say a word out of turn, just a word, an’ they label us the “new red threat” an’ “worse than the Hun”. Lost a brother an’ two of me lads in the last war, an’ me leg’s still peppered with bits of shrapnel where I copped it afore they brought me back to work the pit again, an’ they dare call me a traitor to me country.’

  ‘There’ll be a fight come May, you mark my words, an’ that Baldwin sittin’ there like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, an’ the other ’un, Churchill, with cigars the size of a bazooka stickin’ out of his gob, they’ll both be at the front of it. Nowt but music hall acts, the pair of ’em.’

  ‘Aye, but acts with the power to bring Britain to its knees, man. Don’t forget that. Britain an’ us too, I reckon.’

  ‘What?’

  The chorus of voices that greeted this last declaration suggested it was not a popular one, and in the general hubbub that resulted, which included phrases such as ‘You’re a bloomin’ Jonah if ever there was one’ and ‘Strikes me you’d better make up yer mind whose side you’re on, man’, David made his escape.

  Carrie had her back to him as he approached, but Joan McDarmount caught his eye and smiled at him, although he was too worked up to respond with more than a twitch of his mouth. ‘Carrie?’ He touched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘Could I have a word?’

  Perhaps because of the mental battle he’d had with himself all through the serv
ice which had left him thinking he didn’t know which end of him was up, his voice sounded abrupt, even harsh, and as Carrie turned he saw that her expression was apprehensive. ‘Hello, David.’ It was low. ‘I . . . I’ve been meaning to have a word with you. To apologise for how I was and my da getting the wrong end of the stick.’

  Aw hell, she thought he was being prickly, that he’d come to get his pound of flesh for that night. He felt himself flush, the colour suffusing his face. This was off to a bright start. ‘Forget it, that’s not what I want to talk to you about.’ And yet it was - the circumstances which had led up to him finding her in the yard anyway. The thought threw him; it wasn’t going at all as he’d planned.

  Carrie’s mother was still standing by although she was tied up with the twins who were finding it hard to stand still for a few minutes, and now it came to him that he couldn’t do this in front of inquisitive eyes and flapping ears. He had to get Carrie alone, it was the only way they could both talk frankly, and damn what anyone thought.

  Carrie was smiling uncertainly although he noticed it didn’t touch her eyes. ‘Well, I’m sorry anyway. You were only being kind and I jumped down your--’

  ‘Carrie, I need to talk to you privately. Can I walk you back home?’ Her eyes widened momentarily as he interrupted her, and when she didn’t answer, he said, his voice as low as hers had been but the tone urgent, ‘Please? It’s important.’

  For a second he thought she was going to refuse. Then she shrugged her shoulders slightly and nodded. Turning to her mother she raised her voice to make herself heard above the twins who were now squabbling about something or other. ‘Mam, I’m cold. David’s going to walk me back.’

  ‘Aye, all right, lass.’ Joan smiled ruefully at the pair of them. ‘Looks like the men’ll be a little while yet. Why they have to start again on a Sunday is beyond me. You’d have thought they get enough union talk an’ such of a weekday, wouldn’t you?’

  Neither of them made any reply to this. David said, ‘Goodbye, Mrs McDarmount,’ and Carrie smiled at her mother before they turned and made their way out of the church grounds. It wasn’t until they were approaching the Green that Carrie said, ‘What’s wrong, David?’

  His jaw tightened. Carrie’s tone was casual, even offhand; he wasn’t to know that this was a defence against the vulnerability she was feeling. In view of the fact he’d had to visit the privy umpteen times before he’d left for church and still his bowels were threatening to turn to water, Carrie’s composure grated on him. Even walking at the side of her like this, her head just reaching his shoulder, he felt weak-kneed. He could hold his own with anyone, be they man or woman, his mam included, but when he so much as set eyes on Carrie he was suddenly all at sea. And he didn’t like that. Gruffly, and without any preamble, he said, ‘What’s wrong? It should be me asking you that from where I’m standing. And don’t say nowt either ’cos there’s something.’

  Carrie stumbled but recovered herself instantly, her head still lowered but her voice firm when she said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She’d suspected it would be something like this when he’d asked to walk her home; it wouldn’t be so bad if she knew exactly what she was going to do, but her head was still spinning with the enormity of what had befallen her. The disgrace would break her da, her mam too, although somehow she knew her mother would come to terms with it in time. But not her da. A hasty wedding was one thing, jumping the gun happened more than folks admitted and her da might just cope with that, but to be taken down and left with a bairn? She couldn’t tell him, she had to get away, but how? And where to? She had no money and she wouldn’t be able to work for long anywhere before she began to show.

  ‘I don’t believe you, Carrie. I know something’s up.’

  She forced a note of outrage into her voice, tossing her head as she said, ‘I don’t care whether you believe me or not, David Sutton.’ And then, as she caught sight of two figures some way ahead, Carrie checked her steps, saying, ‘Your mam and Lillian are up in front if you want to catch them up.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I think you should.’

  ‘Now hold on a minute!’ He swung her round to face him with one hand on her arm, but when he saw the terror in her eyes he let go of her immediately, his voice raw when he said, ‘For crying out loud, Carrie, don’t look at me like that. I’m worried about you, that’s all. It’s not a crime, is it?’

  She didn’t answer but stared at him, unblinking, her face even whiter than the snowflakes which were beginning to fall more thickly. He recognised she was frightened, genuinely frightened of him. She was ramrod straight, and her expression caused him to gentle his voice. ‘Lass, that night. You don’t have to tell me the ins and outs, but someone hurt you, didn’t they? Was it a lad? Did he attack you, Carrie?’

  Her face crumpled even before he’d finished speaking, and as his guts twisted, his mind yelled the confirmation of his worst fears. He hadn’t known till this moment how much he had been hoping he was wrong.

  ‘Carrie?’ It was soft, a whisper. ‘Talk to me, lass. This is David. We’re friends, aren’t we?’

  She made a deep obeisance with her head, the only sign she gave that she could hear him.

  ‘Have you told anyone? Your mam? Renee?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice cracked, and he saw she had to swallow before she could say, ‘I . . . It started out as just a kiss and then . . . then he wouldn’t stop.’

  ‘Who? Who wouldn’t stop?’

  She turned her face away, dipping her head so that her voice was muffled when she said, her voice thick now with tears, ‘I’m having a bairn, David.’

  No. The word spiralled in his head, freezing the thought process, so it was with some surprise he heard himself say, ‘What does he say about that?’ as though she’d just admitted to something mundane and ordinary.

  ‘He doesn’t know. There . . . there’s no point. He doesn’t love me. It only happened because we had drunk too much.’

  ‘You have to tell him. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  There was a ringing silence. Some children were playing on a makeshift swing attached to a lamppost on the north side of the Green, close to the Savoy Theatre which had bairns queueing for hours for the Saturday penny matinees, and in spite of the weather two little girls without coats were taking turns skipping with a piece of old rope, their hair matted, clothes filthy, chanting:House to let, apply within,

  As I go out, my neighbour comes in!

  House to let, apply within,

  A woman put out for showing her thing!

  Carrie was little more than a bairn herself. David stared across the settling snow, the Green quieter than a weekday when the noise of the collieries, shipyards and factories guaranteed grime and toil and noise in all the surrounding streets, and tall black chimneys pumped out fetid thick smoke. She’d said this lad wouldn’t stop so she hadn’t been willing to be taken down, but willing enough for a kiss. ‘Do you love him?’ Considering the words were wrenched from somewhere deep inside him, it didn’t show in his voice. ‘You said he doesn’t love you, but do you love him?’

  ‘I thought I did, before . . .’ He saw the shudder she gave.

  ‘And now?’ He had to know.

  ‘I hate him.’ It was flat, definite.

  David looked down at his hands where his fingers were rubbing against each other. He felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach and had to swallow his bile. ‘He ought to take responsibility for what he’s done, for you and the baby.’

  ‘I don’t want anything from him.’

  ‘From who?’ he asked again. ‘Who did it?’

  Her head came up and she wiped her wet face with the back of her hand before she took a deep breath. ‘I can’t tell you that. I won’t tell you that.’

  ‘And your mam and da? You’ll have to tell them, Carrie.’

  ‘Nor them.’ Her answer was vehement.

  ‘They’ll insist on knowing.’r />
  ‘It will cause too much trouble.’ She was fighting the tears. ‘And for what? He won’t marry me, he’d probably even say he’s not the father if he found out, and I couldn’t bear--’ She bit her lip. Her voice was more controlled when she said, ‘I couldn’t bear him to touch me ever again. And if he knew about the bairn, even if he wouldn’t marry me, it’s a link, don’t you see?’

  He’d had his answer as to whether there was the slightest feeling left on her part. Knowing how she felt made it easier for him to say, ‘Actually, I don’t think I want to know his name after all.’

  She was still looking at him, her long eyelashes spiky with tears and her mouth slightly open in surprise.

  ‘That way I can think of the bairn as yours, only yours. Carrie . . .’ He hesitated, his throat constricting so tightly he felt he was being strangled. What if she said no? What if she refused him? He swallowed before wetting his lips. ‘There’s a way out of this. You could marry me.’ He was hot, sweating, and he could feel colour flooding his face again. She was staring at him as if he was mad. She probably thought he was. He might be.