Rosie looked into Flora’s soft grey eyes and their gaze caught and held for long moments before she got up and put her arms round the other girl, saying simply, ‘Thank you for telling me all this, lass.’
‘Something’s burning.’
‘What?’ It wasn’t what Rosie had expected, and then, as realization dawned, ‘Oh my goodness, Mr McLinnie’s parkin! I made it special as well ’cos it’s his favourite.’
The cake was black and smoking when Rosie rescued it from the oven and as the two women stared at the charred lump, Flora’s comment of, ‘Well, lass, he’d have to be mortalious to fancy that,’ suddenly struck them both as funny. Their laughter was loud and long and it relieved the tension, and when Flora left just before nine o’clock to catch the tram home, they hugged each other in a way they hadn’t done for years.
Flora had peeped in the nursery before she’d left and now, as Rosie watched her friend disappear down the street amid the swirling snow and icy wind, she recalled the soft longing in Flora’s face as she’d said, ‘I do so want a bairn, Rosie, and before I’m too old to enjoy it. I want lots of babies, one after the other. I want to fill a house with them.’ And her voice had been a statement of intent when she’d added, ‘Peter would make an excellent father.’
Rosie hadn’t known how to reply for a moment, but then Flora had looked at her, and the tacit plea for approval in the other girl’s face had helped her to say, ‘Yes, he would. He’s a lovely man, Flora.’
‘Aye, I know it.’ And then Flora’s voice had come more strongly. ‘I know it all right.’
It was another ten days before Rosie saw Davey, and then he only called at the house because she had sent a letter asking him to come. It had been a brief letter, terse almost, and anyone reading the few short lines would never have guessed that the writer had agonized over them for days.
Flora had related her conversation with Davey on New Year’s Eve word for word before she had left, and as the days after her friend’s visit had crept by and Rosie had waited in vain, she was forced to acknowledge Flora was right. It was up to her - again. What was it about her, she asked herself, that made men who loved her so tongue-tied? But that was silly; she had known what it was with Zachariah and she knew the obstacle that was holding Davey back. But it mustn’t, the money mustn’t keep them apart. She wouldn’t let it.
Since Flora’s revelation Rosie had alternated between wild elation and deep despair, often within the same sixty seconds. There was so much water under the bridge, they weren’t the young lad and lass they had been back in the carefree days of their youth. He had travelled, seen foreign parts, met other women . . . He would have slept with them. He would have. And there was her, she had been married for goodness’ sake, and she had a son to prove it. And she had loved Zachariah; she would never deny that love no matter what the cost. But he wouldn’t ask her to deny it, he had liked Zachariah, she knew that. Maybe they could work things out? But what if . . . And so it had gone on, questions and answers, questions and answers until she had thought she would go mad.
What would people say if they knew she had asked a man to call on her - and with her first husband having been laid to rest only eighteen months before - with the express purpose of encouraging him to ask her to marry him? She would be labelled a brazen huzzy and worse. Oh aye, she could hear them. The rich young widow and the handsome penniless labourer. Oh, they’d have a field day and no mistake. The tongues would be clacking from here to Newcastle. Did she care what people thought? She had asked herself this more than once and the answer was always the same. Only in as much as it might affect Erik.
Davey arrived at number seventeen The Terrace at exactly seven o’clock in the evening. She had thought about asking him for a meal but her courage hadn’t run to it, and now when she answered the door to his knock her face was burning with colour and quite at variance with the white frozen world outside, the glow suffusing her skin almost scarlet.
‘It was very good of you to come.’ It was formal, too formal, and she tried to lighten her tone as she added, ‘I’ve just put Erik to bed, he was asleep on his feet. We’ve been out in the fresh air most of the day building an igloo in the garden, of all things.’
‘An igloo?’ He raised dark eyebrows. He might have known she would aspire to something more ambitious than the average snowman.
He looked at her for a long moment and then, when he realized his eyes were feasting on her face, quickly glanced behind her as he said, ‘Shall I come in?’
‘Oh I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m thinking of. Please, come in.’ She was flustered and it showed.
Once in the sitting room she waved him to a chair, saying as she did so, ‘Would you care for a cup of tea?’
‘Thank you.’ He stood in front of the crackling fire, his tall lean body straight and stiff, and there was a brief embarrassing silence before Rosie said, ‘I’ll just go and . . .’ as she backed to the door.
Why had she asked him here? Once the door had shut behind Rosie Davey sank down into the proffered armchair, gazing round the bright attractive room as though it would provide the answer. Perhaps she was going to ask him what had happened between himself and Flora? She must know by now that the engagement was off; Flora had made no secret of the fact that she was seeing Peter again, but he had no idea how the news would have affected Rosie. Before Zachariah had died he would have bet his last penny that her feeling for him was still very much alive, in spite of the way she felt about her husband. But now? Since Zachariah’s death she had been reserved, cool even, until the night at the hospital. But she had needed a friendly face then, and likely that’s how she saw him now - merely as a friend.
And then he was disabused of this idea, and his mouth brought agape in the process when, on entering the room with the tray, Rosie said without any preamble at all, ‘There is no easy way to say this, Davey, but knowing how I care about you, Flora told me why she felt it necessary to break off the engagement.’
He stared at her wordlessly while she busied herself with the tea things - or perhaps hid behind them would be a more accurate description - and then he said gruffly, the Tyneside inflexion very prominent in his voice, ‘Did she now? Aye, well that’s Flora for you, isn’t it.’
‘Don’t be like that.’
‘Don’t be like that?’
It was a bark, and in answer to it Rosie’s head jerked up and her mouth thinned as she snapped back, ‘Yes, don’t be like that. You haven’t got the monopoly on feelings, you know. Flora thought she was doing the right thing in telling me what was going on.’
‘Then she was wrong.’
‘I don’t think so.’ As Rosie uttered the words she suddenly had a vivid mental picture of Zachariah’s sitting room in Benton Street, and his face when she had pressed him to declare his feelings for her. There had been none of the aggressiveness that Davey was showing, no egotistical pride, but then the circumstances had been different. No, no. She checked herself quickly. She must be honest in her feelings from this point on whatever happened. It wasn’t that the circumstances were different, that wasn’t it, it was that Zachariah had been a man in a million and she had realized it even then. No one would ever love her as completely or as unselfishly as her late husband. There had been a well of love in Zachariah. And Davey . . . Davey was very human. Life would never be easy or plain sailing with Davey. He would never know how to handle her like Zachariah had done, and they would clash - both having strong, determined personalities - over and over again, but it didn’t make any difference to this love she had for him. It was consuming, that was the only word for it, and if he felt the same he had to see things clearly.
‘Is that why you asked me to come here tonight? To talk about what Flora has said?’ He was on his feet now and Rosie put down the cup of tea she had been about to give him and faced him squarely as he continued. ‘Because I trust she also told you that I’m planning to leave these parts once the weather’s better? It’s high time I made a clean br
eak with Sunderland.’
Her voice was flat and her face was straight when she said, ‘You must do as you please, of course, but can I ask you one thing? And please answer truthfully.’
He stared at her without replying and then, when she had swallowed hard and wetted her lips, she said, ‘Do you love me, Davey?’
He couldn’t believe this was happening. As Davey stared into Rosie’s face he thought, She’s an incredible woman, quite remarkable; but then he’d always known that, hadn’t he? What other woman of his acquaintance, given the circumstances, would have asked him outright like that? Blatant, like. But she wasn’t forward, not in the normal sense of the word. No, she was just very strong, and unique - oh aye, she was unique all right. And it was the knowledge of her strength that enabled him to say, without any softening of his voice, ‘Aye, I do, but it counts for nowt in what we’re talking about.’
‘Nowt? How can you say that?’
‘I’ll never ask you to marry me, Rosie.’ He saw the colour flood her face again but he dare not betray any sign of the raging turmoil that had had him walking the floorboards into the early hours every night since New Year’s Eve, when one refrain had sung through his blood like a song. She hadn’t let him touch her. Shane McLinnie - she hadn’t let him touch her.
‘Because of the money? That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You’re putting what other people might think before us.’
‘No!’ It was like the crack of a whip, and as her face blanched he said more quietly, ‘No, that’s not it, not entirely. Other folk I could handle, it’s meself I can’t stomach. I’m . . . I’m weak in certain areas.’ The words were being torn out of him and when she made a move towards him he stopped her with a savage movement of his hand. ‘Those years down the mine, I can’t describe what they did to me. And the shipyard . . . There’s lads of fourteen and fifteen working there and they handle the deafening row and the heat and the accidents that occur, but me? I’m scared, scared stiff every minute of every day. There was a man last week who had both his hands sliced off by a steel plate--’ He stopped abruptly although Rosie had made no sound or movement, and then continued, his voice and face blank, ‘I can’t take it any more. I don’t mind working hard, I’ll work all the hours under the sun, but I can’t be shut in. And what work is there round here like that? And I won’t be a kept man.’ He said the last as though Rosie had suggested it.
Rosie closed her eyes and when she opened them again she said, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’ll go down south, see what’s about. I hear work’s available there. And if I make it, if . . . if I get on me feet in a year or two I’ll . . . I’ll write.’
No he wouldn’t. Rosie stared at him in silence. And in spite of all he had said it was the money that was separating them. If she had been an ordinary young lass working in a shop or in service or something similar, without any ties or obligations, he would have asked her to go with him. But she wasn’t an ordinary young lass any more, and there was Erik. However she might feel she couldn’t expose her child to the perils of the sort of life Davey was describing. And then she said what was in her heart, in a little soft bewildered voice that made his jaw clench: ‘But I love you.’ ‘And I love you.’
Her heart leapt as he pulled her into his arms and then their lips were clinging, the kiss fiercer and fiercer as their bodies strained together until it seemed they would merge. She could feel the power in his loins as her body moulded to his and she knew that this kind of loving, this wild, crazy, unearthly loving, was something she would never experience with anyone else. He was her other half, the half of a perfect whole. Any weakness of his would be covered by her strength, likewise hers by his strength, it was meant to be, it was. He had to see it. He couldn’t kiss her like this and not see it.
When his lips moved from hers they trailed her face in hot burning kisses as he murmured words that a few minutes before would have made her blush, but now only served to fuel the passion that had her in its grip. She was gasping, frantic, her body arousing him still more as she rubbed against him in a fever of desire, barely aware of what she was doing.
And then it stopped. Just like that.
She stood where he had put her, at arm’s length, and watched him as he walked to the door of the sitting room, and he would have gone without another word if she hadn’t said, ‘You will come and say goodbye before you leave for good? When exactly will you go?’
If he was surprised at her easy acceptance of the situation he made no sign of it as he answered, ‘Late April, early May most likely. There’ll be nothing doing before then.’
‘And you’ll come and say goodbye?’ she pressed again.
‘If that’s what you want.’
‘Yes, that’s what I want.’
They faced each other from across the room and although Rosie’s lips quivered her eyes were dry. He drew in a long breath that expanded his broad chest and lifted his shoulders before turning sharply and opening the door.
She didn’t follow him into the hall but remained exactly where she was until she heard the front door open and then close behind him, after which she stumbled to a chair, one hand stretched out in front of her as though she was blind.
Chapter Twenty-Three
On 21st January, four days after Davey had been to see her, Rosie travelled across the water to Ireland to see Sally and Mick. The inclement weather and the fact that she wasn’t at all sure about the conditions in which she would be staying persuaded her to leave Erik with her mother, and she was glad of this by the time she arrived in Dublin. The long journey by train to Holyhead had been bad enough, but the crossing had been rough and arduous and she had felt very ill most of the time. But the purpose of her visit had given her strength.
On her arrival in Dublin she had stayed overnight in a hotel, then resumed her journey to Ballymore the following morning. She had written to Sally and Mick informing them of her proposed visit but she wasn’t at all sure if they would receive the letter before she actually arrived on their doorstep, and as the horse-drawn cab bounced and bumped its way along frozen mud roads piled high either side with banks of snow, she wondered at times if she would arrive.
But then, at last, she was standing at the door of the small thatched farmhouse that resembled an English country cottage, her heart racing with excitement at the thought of seeing Sally again.
‘Rosie!’ Sally’s ear-splitting shriek of pleasure was all she could have hoped for and the next moment she was enfolded in the other woman’s arms and being hugged like there was no tomorrow. ‘I don’t believe it. Rosie!’
‘Did you get my letter?’
‘Your letter? Rosie, lass, we’re lucky if we get the sun in the mornin’ an’ the moon at night in this neck of the woods. Oh it’s good to see you, lass, it is that. Oh bloomin’ hell, I’m soundin’ like one of the natives now! Heaven preserve us.’
Sally hadn’t changed.
The next few days were a revelation to Rosie as to just how hard farming life could be. Sally and Mick rose before five and were rarely ready to sit in front of the fire in their little sitting room before seven in the evening, and then Sally’s hands were working at darning socks or some such necessary but mundane chore. Little Patrick, the youngest McDoughty, resembled nothing more than a tiny smiling leprechaun, and never once, in the whole of the ten days that Rosie spent with the family, did she hear him cry. And in spite of the hard grinding work it was clear Sally was happy.
‘Oh aye, I wouldn’t swop a minute of me day for bein’ back in England.’ When Rosie spoke of her gladness at how things had turned out for them, Sally was very forthcoming. ‘Farmin’ life is a thing all on its own, lass, an’ I never realized it till I come here. You either love it or hate it, there’s no middle path, an’ I reckon there’s some who would consider themselves buried alive an’ that’s the truth. But as long as I’ve got Mick an’ the bairn I’m all right. You know what I mean? An’ he’s a natural.’ Sally glanced across at Mi
ck, fast asleep in his armchair by the fire, his snores vibrating the air. ‘He’s a born farmer an’ that’s the truth. Aye, lass, we’re doin’ all right, an’ in more ways than one. There’s another one on the way.’
She grinned at Rosie, who gave the expected enthusiastic response. ‘I’ll have to be careful else I’ll be turnin’ ’em out like clockwork.’ Sally grimaced cheerfully. ‘But I tell you, lass, it was like shellin’ peas, an’ like Mick said, there’s nothin’ much else to do when the sun goes down an’ if I have ’em all like I had the last one we’ll soon have our own little workforce. Nothin’ like keepin’ it in the family, is there.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Rosie smiled as Sally dug her in the ribs and then they both giggled as Mick woke up with a ‘Wha? Who?’ when a burning log spat like a bullet in the fire.
Rosie came back from Ireland on 2nd February with her mind quite made up about the course of action which would determine whether she just lived for the rest of her life, or lived abundantly.
She spent the following morning at her solicitors and arrived home early afternoon and, after Ellen and her daughter had left, settled down in front of the fire with Erik playing at her feet with his toys while she looked through the sheaf of papers she had brought home with her. An hour slipped by, with just the sound of Erik’s vrum-vruming as he played with his toy lorry and car, then the peace was shattered as a sharp knock at the front door brought Rosie’s head up.
Reach for Tomorrow Page 38