‘Go on with you!’ Annie made a gesture with one hand as though flapping something aside, and then she said, ‘Where you bin the last few years, lad? We heard tell you’d copped it . . . oh, it must be four years or more now. Drowned, when your ship sunk.’
‘You heard that?’ The smile had been wiped off Davey’s face and now he said, his voice sharp, ‘Who told you that, Mrs McLinnie?’
‘Rosie. Rosie Ferry, as was, an’ she heard it from Flora. Flora works in the Baxter shippin’ office an’ there was a report of a ship sinkin’ with all hands lost. Your name was registered on the crew list.’
Davey flexed back on his heels as he let the breath out between his teeth. The President, it must have been the President. It looked as if he had something to thank Captain McGrathe for after all. But for his decision to jump ship he would have gone down to Davy Jones’s locker alongside the rest of the crew, the poor devils. But he didn’t refer to the doomed ship or his timely escape, instead he asked, ‘Rosie Ferry as was? She’s married then?’ his voice casual, as though he hadn’t just been on his way to Benton Street to find out that very thing.
‘Oh aye, lad, just last week.’
Davey felt the blow register in his solar plexus but didn’t reveal it by so much as the blink of an eyelid.
‘They’ll be comin’ back from their honeymoon in the next day or two, lovely weather they’ve had for it an’ all, bless ’em.’
It was taking all of Davey’s considerable willpower to stand still and nod quietly as though the news meant nothing more to him than it would to any old friend, and his stomach was threatening to throw up its contents, but still he managed to say, ‘That’s grand, Mrs McLinnie. You’ll be pleased to see them back no doubt.’ Five years. It had taken Shane McLinnie five years to get her to the altar and he had missed stopping it by one week. By, Someone up there was having a laugh at his expense all right, but he’d only himself to blame.
‘Aye.’ Annie’s voice was faintly puzzled. That was a funny comment to make, wasn’t it? ‘Well, I’d best be makin’ me way home, lad, my lot’s stomachs’ll be thinkin’ their throats have bin cut. They can still put it away in spite of there only bein’ Mr McLinnie in work most days.’
‘Oh I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs McLinnie, about the lads being laid off,’ Davey said dully.
‘It’s the same for everyone, lad, you’ve decided to come home at a bad time. The so-an’-sos are sellin’ ships off for less than they took to build these days an’ there’s no new orders, an’ the same spirit’s in the mines an’ everywhere else. Don’t think you’ll walk into work, lad, ’cos you won’t. Oh, listen to me’ - again Annie’s hand flapped outwards - ‘you don’t need a prophet of doom the minute you’re back, do you. Well, goodbye, lad, it was nice seein’ you.’
Davey answered automatically, and long after Annie had waddled away he stood exactly where he was, his kitbag at his feet and his eyes staring blindly ahead down the long terraced street. It all looked exactly the same; he could have been away for five days instead of five years. There were the same raggedy-arsed bairns playing mas and das, one of them in charge of a dirty, dilapidated pram from which a bare-bottomed child had escaped or been lifted and was now sitting on the hot pavement with a five-year-old would-be mother trying to ram a mangled dummy into its mouth; a group of boys playing chucks in the gutter and another few fighting over the rights to an old rusty wheel they had found. He had sailed the ocean, travelled halfway round the globe, seen another world and lived a life that, although far from easy, had been one of satisfaction and fulfilment on the land, and here . . . Here time had stopped. Although it hadn’t, had it? She was married. To Shane McLinnie. But that wasn’t the end of it. His eyes narrowed and his lips drew back slightly from his teeth. That scum didn’t have it in him to make any lass happy. He’d wait around a while, see how the land lay. Courting was one thing, being wed was another.
‘Davey!’
It was evening of that same day, and Davey hadn’t been at all sure if Flora would still be living in the house in Fulwell, but when he had tentatively knocked on the door she had opened it, and such was her greeting that it took some of the sting out of his homecoming.
‘Oh Davey, Davey. Oh, Davey . . .’
It appeared it was all she could say as she stood on the doorstep, her hands gripping his and her lovely grey eyes staring up into his face with wonder in their depths.
‘Hallo, lass.’ He knew he was smiling somewhat self-consciously but it was either that or the lump in his throat choking him.
‘But, but . . . how?’ Her mouth had fallen open in a gape. ‘We heard that . . .’
‘Aye, I know.’ He nodded his head in answer to the unspoken question. ‘I saw Mrs McLinnie and she said, but I wasn’t on the President, Flora. I’d skedaddled afore it left port for England.’
‘Oh, Davey.’ She shook his hands gently, her face radiant and her eyes wet. ‘I’m so glad you did!’
‘Me too, Flora.’ Davey was laughing now but he was deeply touched.
‘Oh come in, come in.’ She had seen his eyes pass her into the hall beyond, and now she pulled him through the doorway, calling over her shoulder, ‘Mam! Mam, you’ll never guess what the wind’s blown in.’
Thank heaven it was her da’s night at choir practice. As Flora pushed Davey down the long narrow hall, past the immaculate and rarely used front room on their right and the family sitting room on her left, she said, ‘Mam an’ I were bakin’, you don’t mind comin’ through to the kitchen, do you?’
‘No, no of course not.’ Davey had never been in the Thomases’ house - all the bairns had known her da was something of a tartar - and now as he stepped into the big wide kitchen that stretched over the back of the house, with a small scullery and washhouse built in an L-shape at one side, he was struck by the space and general air of prosperity. ‘Hallo, Mrs Thomas.’
Megan Thomas was standing at the scrubbed kitchen table, her sleeves rolled up and her hands deep in a large bowl of dough she was kneading, and despite the warmth of the summer evening a bright fire was burning in the open fireplace within the blackleaded range at the back of her, and the delicious smell indicated the bread oven was already in use.
‘It’s Davey, Davey Connor.’
At Davey’s greeting Megan had turned enquiring eyes to Flora, and now the older woman said, ‘Of course it is, I’m sorry, Davey, I didn’t recognize you at first,’ in the quick, bird-like, nervous voice that characterized Flora’s mother, before adding, as she turned to Flora again, ‘But didn’t you say . . . ?’
‘It was a mistake, he wasn’t on the ship.’ Flora’s voice was excited, with a lilting note that caused her mother’s eyes to sharpen on her daughter’s pretty animated face. Oh no, no, please God, no. Things had been going so well, and she’d thought Flora was getting to like Peter more and more in the last twelve months since they’d been walking out. Of course nothing had been said for definite, not as far as she knew at any rate, but Peter’s face when he looked at her lass made it crystal clear how he felt. He’d got marriage on his mind and it would only take the slightest encouragement for him to say so.
‘Sit down, Davey, sit down.’ Flora was fussing over him, her face still wreathed in smiles. ‘I’ll get you a drink, the kettle’s on the hob, an’ there’s a shive of spice cake, or perhaps you’d rather have a bit of parkin?’ She gestured towards the northern cake made of treacle and oatmeal that was cooling at one side of the table. ‘I’ve just made it.’
‘Please, don’t go to any trouble.’ Davey was feeling distinctly embarrassed, and this was reflected in his voice when he looked directly at Megan and said, ‘I didn’t intend to stay, Mrs Thomas, and I can see that you’re busy. Perhaps a quick cup of tea and then I’ll be on my way.’
He was different. As she watched her mother smile timidly and insist that no of course he must stay for something to eat and it was so nice to see him again after all this time, Flora’s mind was racing. He looked diffe
rent; older, more handsome and very striking with his brown skin and sun-bleached hair, and he talked different too; the northern drawl was less pronounced and his intonation was clearer, crisper. But it was more than that. She felt her heart pound as the rusty-green eyes turned to her and smiled, and she smiled back quickly before turning and busying herself with making the tea. He had an authority about him now, a virility that made her knees wobble. The rawness of the thought shocked her and she almost dropped the teapot.
It was only half an hour later that Davey rose to leave, but he could sense the waves of agitation coming from Flora’s mother even if he didn’t fully understand them, and he felt sorry for the pathetic little mouse-like woman who was nothing at all like her vivacious daughter. The conversation had been all about his time in Egypt and his experiences overseas, but now, as he got to his feet, Flora said, ‘Oh you can’t go yet, there’s still so much I want to know. Where are you staying anyway?’ as she rose with him.
‘With Mrs Riley, my old next-door neighbour. I called in earlier to say hallo, and with her Douglas married and it being just the two of them she was insistent I take the spare room. She thought a lot of my mother.’
He smiled now and Flora said, ‘Aye, yes, of course.’ She couldn’t let him go yet, she just couldn’t, although she understood why her mother was beside herself and perhaps it would be better to get him out of the house. ‘I’ll walk with you a little way, if I may?’ she asked now, the words prim but her eager face anything but. ‘It’s a lovely evening and I want to ask you some more about the farm and Cairo.’
‘Fine.’ Davey blinked a little before turning to Megan Thomas, his smile kind, as he said, ‘Goodbye, and thank you for the tea and cake.’
‘It was nothing, lad, nothing.’ Dear God, dear Lord Jesus, don’t let him see them, please don’t let Llewellyn see them. Since Flora threatening him with Peter and the rest, it had kept him off her most of the time and the once or twice he’d gone back to his old ways, when he’d been in a rage about something or other, he’d come to his senses before he really hurt her. She glanced at the little finger of her left hand which was contorted out of shape. He hadn’t done anything like that since Flora’s warning anyway, and he hadn’t dared lay a hand on the lass herself the last two years, but if Flora took up with a miner and this with Peter didn’t work out Llewellyn would go insane.
Once Flora and Davey had gone and Megan was alone she continued to sit limply at the kitchen table instead of clearing away as she was apt to do; Llewellyn was averse to anything but the most immaculately clean and tidy house, and all baking and other such chores had to be done either in the day or on the evenings he was out at choir practice or committee meetings.
Her face was pale and lined and her faded blue eyes gazed wearily across the warm fragrant kitchen, and anyone seeing her sitting there could have been forgiven for thinking that she was exhausted or ill, but beneath the enervated exterior Megan’s mind was screaming and shouting. If anything should happen to shatter this fragile haven which Flora’s fortitude had brought them into, she didn’t know what she’d do. Oh, she knew what Flora thought. Her daughter believed she was too petrified of Llewellyn to make a stand against him, that she was content to be bought off with the material possessions he loved to flaunt and crow about. She hadn’t tried to disabuse Flora of any of it, how could she? It had been true once. She had allowed him to get away with near murder at times.
She stood up now, leaning with the palms of both hands on the table as she bent her body until her head was almost touching the table top. Twenty years, twenty years she had endured his rages. They had started just three months after they were married, when she had been late back from visiting her mother one afternoon and Llewellyn had arrived home to an empty house. He had been waiting in the kitchen for her and he had punched her so hard in the stomach she had been sick for a week. She shook her head slowly, tendrils of hair brushing the white film of flour on the table. But in these last two years she had had some semblance of peace and she couldn’t, she couldn’t go back to what it had been like before. Her glance rested on the big wooden-handled breadknife with which Flora had cut the cake earlier, and remained transfixed on the sharp jagged blade as the screaming in her mind died down to a soft murmuring that reverberated gently on her eardrums, and then one quiet whisper. And the whisper told her quite clearly what must be done if it looked as though the beatings were going to happen again. And she nodded to it, like an obedient child, and began to clear the baking tins away.
Davey stood still in the middle of the pavement and stared at Flora, and the look on his face caused her to say, and with some anxiety, ‘But you said you knew she was married?’
‘I . . . I thought . . .’ Davey took a deep breath and forced the words through the constriction in his throat, ‘I thought it was Shane, that Shane McLinnie was her husband.’
‘Shane McLinnie?’ Flora couldn’t have been more astounded if he had said the devil himself. ‘Why on earth would Rosie marry Shane McLinnie?’ And when he continued to stare dumbly at her she said again, with gentle insistence as she took his arm, ‘Davey? Why Shane of all people?’
He had to pull himself together, she must think he was mad. The thought was there but the power to follow it through was quite beyond him, and when Flora tugged on his arm, leading him across the street and into a small park which was simply some few hundred yards of neatly cut grass and regimented flower beds, he went as meekly as a lamb. It wasn’t until they sat down on the small wooden bench and Flora asked again, ‘Why Shane, Davey?’ that he found his tongue and managed to say, ‘I thought he was sweet on her. I saw them one day . . .’
‘You saw them? Rosie and Shane? I don’t understand.’
And so he told her. He didn’t look at her as he spoke - if he had done so he would have seen a whole host of emotions pass over Flora’s face - and when he had finished there was silence. It was getting late, twilight was beginning to settle over the scene and the warm balmy smell peculiar to hot summer nights was scenting the air. In the distance beyond the park there were the muted sounds of a community settling down for the night - children shouting, a dog barking - but apart from one or two courting couples strolling the winding paths arm-in-arm, and a family with two small children rolling hoops making their way homewards, the park was quiet, as befitted this better part of Fulwell where the eminently respectable citizens kept their doorsteps scrubbed as white as snow and their curtains starched in permanent flounces. If any housewives in Fulwell were worried that their man’s next pay packet might be his last it wasn’t spoken about publicly - there were standards to adhere to, proprieties to be upheld.
She had to tell him. Davey was leaning forward, his elbows resting on his legs and his hands clasped beneath his chin as he stared straight ahead. She had to tell him what Shane McLinnie had tried to do that night, and about him visiting Zachariah’s house and all the hoo-ha that had followed. But as Flora stared at the bowed profile the words wouldn’t come. Rosie was married now, she had Zachariah and she said she loved him. She was happy, she was. It was better to let sleeping dogs lie, for Davey to continue to think along the lines he’d thought for five years, it’d do no good to tell him the truth and maybe stir up all the old feelings he’d had for Rosie - that wouldn’t help him at all. And then the innate honesty that was a basic part of Flora’s character added, And it wouldn’t help you either, more to the point, would it?
But Davey was back, he was back, and she wouldn’t have another chance like this again, she knew she wouldn’t. And Peter? She felt a sharp stab of guilt that she immediately quashed. She had never said to Peter that she loved him. All along, right from when she had first agreed to walk out with him, she had said she wanted them just to be friends and see what developed. She hadn’t made any promises. And they could still be friends, if he wanted that. In fact she would be sad to lose his friendship, if she thought about it.
‘This Zachariah, I saw him one time.’ Davey paused no
w, as though searching for the right words, and then he said, ‘I don’t understand, Flora. Does she love him?’ And before Flora could answer, ‘What does he do anyway?’
‘Do?’
‘A job. What sort of line is he in?’
‘I don’t know, not exactly. I know he spends quite a bit of time at the Maritime Almshouses, Rosie said he’s on the board or something, and he owns his own house, I know that. Mrs McLinnie--’ ‘Aye, what about Mrs McLinnie?’ Davey asked as Flora stopped abruptly.
‘Well, Mrs McLinnie said - and I don’t know if it’s true, mind, and I’ve not discussed it with Rosie - but she said at the wedding when she’d had a few that she had heard Zac’s mam used to be in with them that did the shifting down in the docks when the Danes’ boats were in. She said Zac’s mam had made a packet according to some folks. His da was a Danish sea captain so it might be true. He . . . he seems well set up anyway.’
So she had let one paw her for pleasure and the other because she had set her sights on a life of ease? And then, when Flora said hesitantly, ‘Don’t look so sad, Davey,’ he turned to her, a bitter twist to his mouth as he replied, ‘I’m not sad, Flora.’ Angry - furiously, murderously angry - and disappointed, oh aye, disappointed, but he was damned if he would let himself be sad.
‘They’ll be back soon, from honeymoon, and I know Rosie would like to see you.’
Maybe. His eyes had left her to roam the neat little park as though searching for an answer to the sick turmoil that had gripped him, but now, as Flora placed a light hand on his arm he looked at her. She was waiting for his eyes. ‘Aye, lass, well maybe I won’t be staying over long. I hear tell it’s bad here, the work situation? I might make my way down south and see how the land lies there.’
Flora gave an involuntary jerk, and her voice was rushed and high when she said, ‘Oh no, don’t do that, not yet when you have only just got back. I can have a word with Peter - he’s . . . he’s the son of the man who owns the shipyard I work for, and he’s in charge of selecting men for the different shifts - and ask him to help if it’s work you need. He won’t mind.’
Reach for Tomorrow Page 20