Reach for Tomorrow

by Rita Bradshaw

  In that last week of December, 1927, Britain was swept by freezing blizzards and food supplies had to be air-dropped into villages cut off by snow. The atrocious weather seemed like the last straw to many of Sunderland’s miners and steelworkers who had been out of work for months. Boots could only be cobbled so many times, clothes patched in so many places before they fell apart, and the squalor and decay that had been just about bearable through the warmth of the summer became intolerable in the harsh, unrelenting winter.

  The childhood complaints that had begun to die out at the end of the nineteenth century such as rickets and other wasting diseases were rearing their ugly heads again, and the non-attendance of doctors and midwives at births - and who could afford to pay for their services when there was no coal or even cinders for the fire, and no food for the table? - produced a terrible culling of the weakest among the stricken north’s working-class families.

  Men were angry and bitter - whole communities were angry and bitter - and yet it was a time when one man would lend another his only pair of boots for the day when the need was great, and know that they would be returned with some spit and polish on the patched leather. Housewives would band together to provide a pot of broth for a new nursing mother, and bread and dripping for the rest of the family. The colour and furore might be dying in the docks, and the steelworks and mines gasping for breath, but the northern people looked after their own where they could.

  But now it was Saturday, 31st December - New Year’s Eve - and Flora had come to a decision. She was meeting Davey at Mrs Prinn’s café before they went to the Cora Picture Palace at the corner of Southwick Road and Newcastle Road, but as she slowly got ready she knew she had to face the truth she had been putting to the back of her mind whilst concern for the child had still run high.

  She had always known deep inside, hadn’t she, however much she had tried to fool herself over the last few months? Aye, she had. She’d known all along. Davey’s easy acceptance of the unwritten law that they should wait a respectable period after her parents’ deaths before they set a date for the wedding, his coolness on occasion, his lack of ardour and considerate, almost benevolent attitude towards her - it was all linked with Rosie. Davey had never been the eager fiancé, and he had certainly never behaved as a man madly in love with his sweetheart.

  If Zachariah hadn’t died, if Rosie hadn’t effectively become free again, things might have been different. She could perhaps have carried on fooling herself then. They could have moved away and started afresh. And when she’d had his children - and she longed for children, oh, she did - that would have been a bond between them that could have been nurtured and built on. But Zachariah had died. And she couldn’t fool herself any more.

  Davey would never look at her the way he had looked at Rosie that night at the hospital.

  The knowledge she had been fighting against for days was like a physical pain in her chest and she flinched under it. It wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t Rosie’s fault, it was just a fact. Oh, she didn’t doubt she could bring him up to scratch if she so chose. Her lip curled slightly at the thought. He was a decent man, honourable and kind, and if she pressed him he would go through with the marriage. She could be Mrs Connor by the summer if she set her heart on it.

  She buttoned her coat and pulled her hat down over her ears before picking up her gloves and her handbag, and leaving her room. She walked quickly down the stairs and opened the front door without speaking to her landlady; she couldn’t have faced idle chatter today.

  The raw December afternoon was so cold it took her breath away, and she was conscious of thinking, There’s more snow in the air, I can smell it, before she came back to the dilemma she now knew she had been trying to ignore for months. She could have prompted Davey to marry her before this but she hadn’t because she had wanted him to fall in love with her. And it wasn’t going to happen. He cared about her, in his own way she didn’t doubt he was very fond of her, but it wasn’t love in the real sense of the word. Not like she had for him, like Zachariah had had for Rosie, like Peter had for her . . . The last thought caused her to bring her lips together and draw them inwards. Poor Peter. Poor, poor Peter.

  Davey loved Rosie. Flora drew the freezing air deep into her lungs as she neared the end of the street. She herself had ceased to exist for him in those few moments when he had seen Rosie’s distress. She had thought she could live with it, master her own feelings and make him fall in love with her, but it wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. Deep in the heart of him it would always be Rosie.

  She clenched her teeth against the pain. If she kept Davey to his word and forced this marriage through, she would live to regret it bitterly.

  The wind was raw, and as she pulled her hat even further down over her ears the first fat snowflakes began to whirl and soar from a laden sky. She had to tell him. She had to let him go.

  Davey was waiting outside Prinn’s when Flora turned the corner, and as she saw his face break into a smile at the sight of her she felt her heart crack. He wasn’t smiling by the time she reached him - the look on her face must have told him something was wrong. ‘What is it? Is it Erik?’

  Flora was surprised by the sudden anger that flooded her. Here was she, tearing herself apart, and still he could only think of Rosie - or her child, to be more precise. ‘No.’ Her voice was crisp. ‘As far as I know Erik is absolutely fine.’ And then, as he went to open the door of the café, she said, ‘No, don’t let’s go in there. I . . . I need to talk to you. Privately.’

  She turned and began walking back the way she had come without waiting for his agreement, and when he fell into step beside her, and before he could speak, Flora said, ‘I need to tell you something, Davey, and just listen, will you? Without saying anything? It’s about Rosie, Rosie and Shane, and that night you saw them in the snow.’

  She didn’t look at him as she related exactly what had happened that night so many years ago, and Shane’s subsequent visit to Zachariah’s house when his hatred of the other man had been born, and she finished with, ‘She’s always hated Shane, Davey, always. There was never anything between them except in his sick mind.’

  It was some moments before he said, ‘Why are you telling me this now, Flora?’

  She glanced his way and although it might have been her imagination he looked different - younger, lighter - and it made her voice sharp as she said, ‘You know why. I think it’s about time we faced facts, don’t you? It isn’t working between us and we both know it. We should have stayed friends, Davey, and that’s all.’

  The effect of her words on Davey was paralysing for a second. He stood stock still so that Flora was forced to slow her footsteps and then turn and face him. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ he asked slowly.

  ‘I’m talking about me getting on with my life, Davey. I think I shall start looking around for different accommodation in the spring, perhaps even a little house of my own. I think I would like that. I’m tired of lodgings.’

  ‘Flora--’

  She spoke quickly now in an effort to stop herself breaking down, but she had seen the relief and surprise in his eyes. ‘I’d like us to go back to how we were before my parents died, that’s what I’m trying to say. I wasn’t thinking straight after they had gone, it was a difficult time all round, and I know you wanted to see me through it but I’m better now. I want . . .’ She paused. This was hard, so hard, but she intended to come out of this whole miserable affair with a remnant of dignity if nothing else. ‘I want there to be a spark with the man I marry, you know what I mean? And it isn’t there with us, is it?’ Not on your side anyway, she added silently.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ He was looking hard at her now. ‘Is this because of Christmas Eve? When I comforted . . .’

  If he had said Rosie’s name, if he had actually said it, she might still have thought there was some hope for them. ‘When you hugged Rosie?’ Flora shook her head slowly. ‘Oh, Davey, what do you take me for? This isn’t becau
se of a hug.’ And it wasn’t, not really. When he had taken Rosie into his arms it had merely been the catalyst. ‘I care about you very much, you know that.’ She was standing straight and still and the snow was whirling about them in fierce gusts, and now she turned, saying, ‘It’s coming down thicker, we’d better keep walking. ’

  ‘Flora, listen to me.’ Davey caught her arm, turning her to face him again. ‘I’ll try harder--’

  ‘I don’t want you to have to try!’ It was fierce, and her face was white when she said again, but more quietly this time, ‘I don’t want you to have to try, Davey. Don’t you see? That’s the whole point. And I want you to know you are completely free to approach anyone you like.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ His voice was sharp but then, as he stared into the dark grey of her eyes, what he saw there humbled him. ‘Oh, Flora.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, I can tell you now you’re barking up the wrong tree, lass.’

  ‘You still love her.’

  He did not deny it, but what he did say was, ‘She’s a wealthy young woman, and once the necessary proprieties have been observed there will no doubt be countless men of similar wealth beating a path to her door.’

  It was a slight exaggeration but Flora didn’t take him up on it. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Everything.’

  Everything. He could say everything and mean it, and yet he had taken the job at Peter’s father’s shipyard that she had arranged, and he would have married her, knowing about her money, without a second thought. Not that her wealth was on the same lines as Rosie’s, of course it wasn’t, but in these days of increasing depression and poverty it wasn’t to be sneezed at either.

  But Davey had looked at it as though he was doing her the favour, that was the thing. And he had been. He had loathed every day working in the shipyard, she knew that, and but for her parents dying he would be long since gone. In the first weeks of his homecoming he had been full of working on a farm somewhere down south and he would have followed through on that.

  Her thoughts hardened Flora’s resolve, and now her voice was very controlled and even as she said, ‘What you do is up to you, of course, but it doesn’t alter what’s been said. We’ll still be friends?’

  She looked up at him as she spoke and his eyes were waiting for her, and they were warm and soft when he replied, ‘Of course we’ll still be friends, Flora.’

  ‘And . . . and you forgive me, about not telling you the truth about Shane and Rosie?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference, Flora. She was already married,’ he said quietly. It wasn’t the point and they both knew it, but then he took her hand and tucked it through his arm as he continued, ‘But if it makes you feel better, of course I forgive you, you know that.’ He tried to keep his voice even and steady, but the tumult of emotions filling his chest made it difficult. He should be feeling wretched - he thought a lot of Flora, he always had done, hadn’t he - but it was as though a ton weight had lifted from his shoulders in the last few minutes, and the removal of it was making him light-headed.

  It was over, done with. Flora forced herself to keep walking and talking although her mind was working quite separately to what her mouth was saying. Although it wasn’t quite over, was it? There was something else to do before she could put all this behind her and start to pick up the pieces of her life, if that was possible. And this last thing would be more difficult than anything which had gone before.

  The second sweep of furious blizzards and deep snow meant that Flora didn’t get to visit Rosie until the end of the first week of January. The papers and radio were full of the fact that the Thames had burst its banks in London, flooding low-lying districts and killing fourteen people owing to the combination of a high tide and sudden thaw, but the north remained icebound.

  Rosie was busy baking in the kitchen when Flora arrived. Since Annie’s passing she had taken to stocking up Arthur and the lads with fresh bread, cakes, ham pies and other such necessities once a week, pretending each time she delivered the food parcels that it was simply to indulge her love of cooking and that their empty cupboards and bare shelves were unnoticed by her. She looked on Arthur and the lads as extensions of Annie and quite unconnected with Shane, and even when the numbness surrounding thoughts of Annie’s youngest had worn off and she had felt a bitterness so deep it had been a dark abyss, it hadn’t influenced the way she had thought about Annie’s husband and other sons. In the last year Patrick and Michael had started courting local lasses, but Arthur had told her both were chary of committing themselves with the depression biting hard, and again Rosie’s thoughts had returned to the little farm. But it would have to wait until the better weather, and even then she might not find anything suitable at the right price. It was an enormous undertaking at best.

  Flora followed Rosie through into the warm fragrant confines of the kitchen, lifting her nose as she sniffed with loud appreciation. ‘By, Rosie, you’re making my mouth water.’ And surprisingly enough Flora found it was true. Since New Year’s Eve she had had no appetite whatsoever, but warm spice wigs fresh from the oven were hard to resist, broken heart or no broken heart.

  ‘Help yourself.’ Rosie indicated the yeasted teacakes with a wave of her hand. ‘There’s a slab of butter in the pantry although it’ll be rock hard.’

  ‘Peter’s mam eats nine or ten of these in one go,’ Flora confided as she bit into the teacake which was bulging with currants. ‘And with each mouthful she always says, “I’ll have one more bite and that’s all, I’ve got to watch my weight.” Peter says on the quiet that he reckons that’s all she does do - watch it. Watch it go up and up and up.’

  Flora was sitting in front of the kitchen range and her voice was mild and conversational, but Rosie’s eyes were penetrating as they focused on her friend’s face. Flora hadn’t mentioned Peter in months. It was all Davey. Always Davey.

  ‘How is Peter?’ Rosie kept her voice casual as she turned her hands to the pastry, and she didn’t look at Flora now.

  ‘Peter’s fine.’ Flora didn’t have to force the thread of affection in her voice. She had told herself several times over the last days that she didn’t know what she would have done without Peter Baxter. She and Davey had decided on New Year’s Eve that there would be no formal announcement of the end of their engagement; she’d never worn an engagement ring anyway, she had just changed her mother’s ring to the third finger of her left hand after Davey had spoken. But then she had broken down at work on the Tuesday following the weekend and it had all come out. Peter had been marvellous. There had been no I-told-you-so, or any indication that he considered she’d got her just deserts, he had just been the same old Peter - supporting her one hundred per cent. He had mopped up her tears, fetched her a cup of tea and then waited for her after work and driven her back to her lodgings. And now Flora took a deep breath after finishing the teacake in one gulp before saying, ‘I’m sort of seeing him again actually. Davey and I . . . It wasn’t working out.’

  ‘What?’ Rosie couldn’t say any more, she just looked at Flora.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘Don’t look at you . . . Flora, I know how you feel about Davey. What on earth happened? Did you have a row?’

  ‘No.’ And then to Rosie’s surprise Flora suddenly stood up and took Rosie’s floury hands in her own, blinking rapidly as she said, ‘He loves you, Rosie. He’s always loved you. I won’t pretend to be a saint and say I think it’s fair, and if I thought there was any chance at all for me I wouldn’t be here now. There, that’s the truth. But it was me who finished it. I suddenly realized I couldn’t face the rest of my life with a man who wanted to be with someone else, and . . . and I do care about you.’

  Rosie’s eyes searched her friend’s face but although her mouth opened no words came out.

  ‘And so now it’s up to you.’

  ‘Me?’ When Flora let go of her hands Rosie plumpe
d down on a kitchen chair. ‘What do you mean it’s up to me?’

  ‘Do you still love him?’

  ‘Love him?’ Suddenly the moment when Davey had taken her in his arms at the hospital was there and Rosie could feel her face burning. But she didn’t dodge the question. ‘Yes, I do.’ She inclined her head slowly with the affirmative. ‘But like you just said, that’s not fair is it? No one forced me to marry Zachariah, Flora, and if I was in the same position again as I was then I would do exactly the same thing. I - I loved him, very much. Not like Davey, but I did love him.’

  ‘Aye, I know you did, and he loved you an’ all.’

  ‘And with your mam and da and everything--’

  ‘No.’ It was the old impetuous Flora who interrupted her.

  ‘No, forget all that, lass, that’s nothing to do with it. This is now.’

  There was a long moment of silence when the kettle on the hearth spluttered and hissed and the low moan of the wind outside emphasized the warm cosiness of the kitchen. Rosie looked towards the dark window for some seconds before turning to meet Flora’s eyes. And then she said, ‘Flora, are you sure about this? About what you are saying?’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure.’ Flora relaxed back in her seat, her shoulders slumping. ‘Davey thought you were seeing Shane McLinnie before, when he left all them years ago. He’d seen you that night in the snow - you remember you thought someone had passed by? - and he’d got the wrong idea, then he went to see Shane and you can imagine what Shane said.’ She lifted her head and looked at Rosie’s face and what she saw there made her continue quickly, ‘And I let him carry on thinking it but he knows the truth now. The thing is, all this’ - Flora waved her hand widely - ‘will stop him speaking. So . . . it’s up to you.’