by Maggie Hope
‘Well, I am eighteen, Auntie Phoebe,’ said Meg. ‘Nearly nineteen now. I can go out with a lad if I want to.’
Auntie Phoebe bridled. ‘Aye. Well, you just want to be careful who you go with. He’s got a name for himself has that one, an’ you’ll be getting a bad name an’ all if you go out with him. There was talk about him once with a lass in Auckland, didn’t you hear about it? Like I say—’
‘I don’t want to hear it,’ said Meg, surprising herself, let alone Auntie Phoebe. ‘Any road, here’s Da coming down the stairs for his tea. The lads’ll be in in a minute.’
Auntie Phoebe leaned forward and whispered fiercely, ‘You watch what you’re doing, our Meg. You don’t want to be bringing any trouble home, now do you?’ And with that, she marched out of the door.
Meg seethed. Who did her aunt think she was? If she went out with any lad, even Wesley Cornish, why should that mean she would bring trouble back to the house? But then her brothers came in and Da was wanting his tea and Meg had to forget about it all until she had finished the meal and washed up. Da went out on one of his solitary walks and Jack Boy and Miles went off behind the pitheaps where they were meeting their marras for a game of cricket. At last Meg was alone to think about Wesley and her meeting with him that afternoon.
And she had to be honest with herself. The way her feelings had been roused when Wes took her in his arms and kissed her, Auntie Phoebe could have been right.
Fourteen
‘You don’t want your name bandied about, our Meg,’ said Jack Boy. It was Monday evening and he was still black from the pit. He was on day shift and hadn’t been long in the house.
‘What do you mean?’ she demanded.
‘Going up to the bunny banks with Wesley Cornish, that’s what I mean.’
Meg was on the defensive. Jack Boy had come in from the pit and she could tell straight away that he was worried about something. Now he had followed her into the front room so that he could speak to her on her own.
‘How did you know where we went?’ she said helplessly.
‘Wes is always boasting about the lasses he takes up there, didn’t you know that?’
‘He wouldn’t tell anybody about me.’
‘Aw, no, not about you, he hasn’t said anything about you,’ her brother admitted. He gazed earnestly at her, his blue eyes solemn in his black-streaked face.
‘I knew it,’ Meg said, but all the same, relief flooded through her.
‘But any road, you listen to what I’m telling you. He’s bad news for a decent lass, he is.’
Meg tossed her head, the colour flaming in her cheeks now. She wasn’t going to let her brother tell her what to do nor who she could go out with. Why, Jack Boy was just a bairn. She had practically brought him up, hadn’t she?
‘It’s none of your business,’ she snapped. She had her dander up all right. ‘If I want to walk out with Wesley Cornish, I will.’
Jack Boy looked as though he was going to protest further but Meg jumped in first.
‘Remember he was the one who helped you and Miles when you needed it,’ she said hotly. ‘You know what I mean, when the pit was on strike.’
Jack Boy shrugged and turned away. He’d put in his word of warning, there was nothing more he could do. Da wasn’t interested enough to do anything about it.
Meg had been unsure of her feelings towards Wesley Cornish, and as the week progressed became more so. She might have wavered, she even thought about telling Wes she had changed her mind, that she didn’t want to meet him again. But Jack Boy’s opposition stopped her. She couldn’t let her brother think he had influenced her. She was going out with Wesley Cornish on Sunday afternoon even if it snowed. She liked him, she told herself, he was a good-looking lad, wasn’t he? What was wrong with him any road? Nothing was going to happen. She was in control of her emotions, and would stop anything happening. He had shown respect for her last Sunday, hadn’t he? And he was so exciting . . .
Sunday afternoon came round soon enough and Meg, dressed in her blue cotton frock which she had managed to press into fairly good shape, though it no longer had that pristine freshness it had had the Sunday before, set out to meet Wesley again. She had made the usual arrangements for the household to go on without her for an hour or two and this time brought her old shawl for there was a cool wind blowing from the moors.
Auntie Phoebe came to the door as she went out, she must have been watching for her.
‘You’re not meeting that Wesley Cornish again, are you, Meg?’ she asked.
‘I am, Auntie,’ she said firmly.
‘If your da was himself, he wouldn’t want you to.’
Meg lifted her chin and walked rapidly up the row, not deigning to reply. Auntie Phoebe was not even her real aunt, she told herself, she couldn’t tell her what to do. Her real aunt was dead. She had been Nell, Jonty’s mother. Hadn’t her mam told her about Aunt Nell often enough? The thought unsettled her and she was filled with vague regrets as she saw Wes in the distance waiting for her. Her footsteps slowed.
From out of nowhere a memory popped into her head of being in Grizedale Hall, playing with Jonty. He was hiding and she was looking for him, feeling a little nervous and frightened because she was upstairs in the big house and might meet Jonty’s da. And she had been in a bedroom, and she had been . . . he had been . . . What had Jonty’s da been doing? The wisp of memory slipped away, leaving her puzzled.
‘Wotcha.’ Wesley came to meet her and fell into step behind her. ‘You look as though you’d lost a shilling and found a ha’penny.’
She looked up into his merry twinkling eyes and the puzzled frown left her face and she smiled up at him, the memory forgotten. By, Wesley was a handsome lad, she thought happily. He looked so open and fresh-faced, there just couldn’t be any real bad in him. He had been a bit wild growing up, that’s all it was. The old wives in this place would call anybody names, nothing else to do all day.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said primly.
They walked out of the village taking the same road they had the Sunday before and in the same fashion.
There was a gap of a few feet between them and they were awkward, hardly acknowledging they were together until they were clear of the last straggling houses. But when Wesley would have turned and taken the track up through the bunny banks, Meg demurred.
‘I don’t want to go there.’
Welsey lifted his eyebrows in surprise but halted nevertheless.
‘Where to then?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, let’s just walk along the road a bit.’
Meg, in spite of herself, couldn’t put out of her mind what Jack Boy had told her about Wesley taking all his girlfriends up to the bunny banks. It had turned her completely off the place.
They wandered silently along the road for a mile or two and Wesley began whistling tunelessly through his teeth. He looked round at the countryside and scuffed at last year’s dead leaves with his feet, looking bored. But when they came up to a footpath which led over the fields to Old Eldon, he brightened up. Pausing by the stile, he looked at Meg.
‘We’ll go off here then?’
He didn’t wait for her answer but climbed over the stile and waited for her on the other side. After a minute’s hesitation, Meg followed, tentatively taking his hand when he offered it to help her down. His grasp was warm and firm and her hand tingled after she let go.
They wandered up the path by a hedge bright with wild pink roses nestling among shiny green leaves. At the top of the bank the path branched and Wesley drew Meg along the smaller path which led not to the pretty farming village of Old Eldon but to Old Pit, though a different path from the one Meg took to visit Mrs Dobbs. The gap between the hedges widened and on one side there was a broad grassy bank, covered with wild strawberries.
‘Oh! I wish I’d brought something to put them in, I could have taken some home for tea.’
‘Will my handkerchief do? It’s clean. Me mam just put it in my pocket.’
> Wesley took out the large red and white spotted handkerchief from his jacket pocket and tied the four corners into a knot, making a sort of bag with it. Soon they were picking the tiny, juicy fruit, filling the handkerchief in minutes even though Wesley was eating as many as he put in. Their fingers were soon red and sticky with juice and Meg sighed as she sat back and tried to lick them clean, to no avail whatsoever for they were well and truly stained.
Laughing, she looked up at Wesley. He had a glistening red mark on his chin where juice had run down and there was a further stain on his white shirt.
‘Eeh, Welsey, your mam’ll kill you,’ she laughed. ‘She’ll have a job getting that back to white.’
‘I don’t care, it was worth it. Am I going to get to have some of those strawberries for me tea, then?’ He caught hold of her hand and they resumed their walk along the path, Wesley swinging the bag of strawberries by his side.
Meg was speechless. She felt confused. This was going too quickly for her. For Wes to ask that question even casually meant he was asking to come to her house for his tea, which meant he was intending for them to be officially walking out together, which meant he was serious.
‘Well?’
‘I don’t know, Wes, really I don’t.’
‘You like me, don’t you?’
Meg felt his hand tighten on hers, and peeped up at him. By, he was a handsome lad, she thought. And Jack Boy was wrong about him. He might have been wild before but he meant to do the right thing by her. The trouble was, she still didn’t know if that was what she wanted. Panic rose up in her and threatened to choke her.
‘I like you, Wes,’ she said at last. ‘But I don’t know if I’m ready for anything else, not yet.’
Wesley stopped walking and turned to face her. He put up a hand and circled the back of her neck and his fingers were hard and rough against the soft skin of her nape. They had reached another fork in the path. Around the bend on their right was Old Pit and on their left a broader track with an iron ‘cowcatcher’ gate. Beyond loomed a dark, dense wood and to one side farm buildings appeared, or rather the chimneys of a house and a roof of a barn, surrounded by a high stone wall. Gently, Wesley pulled her towards the trees.
‘Not ready?’ He laughed softly, ‘Eeh, lass, you’re ready, you’re ripe for the plucking. I’ve been watching you these last weeks and I can see it in you, the way you look at me when you think I’m not looking, the way you swing your hips. Oh, aye, you’re ready right enough. An’ you know I’ve had a soft spot for you for a long time.’
They reached the wood and he leaned her up against the trunk of an oak tree and brought his mouth down on hers, gently at first, then with increasing passion.
In the beginning, Meg felt herself responding to him. Strange feelings, strong, secret feelings, clamoured for release in her body. Her mouth opened under his and she kissed him back with a fervour which surprised her. She who had never kissed a boy before last Sunday, except for her father and brothers, found her natural modesty being overwhelmed in the sweetness of her desire.
She could taste the strawberries on his tongue as he thrust it between her lips, she made no resistance when he slowly pulled her down on to the layer of leaves beneath the tree. Alarm bells did ring in her mind when he began touching her more intimate places, pushing up her skirt and moving on top of her. She struggled but it was too late. He had her completely in his grip now and brushed her objections aside impatiently.
Meg fought still but Wesley was strong from hewing coal underground, his arms were immovable, his eyes glazed as he held her down easily and used her. All she could see was his face, red with exertion, almost inhuman as he panted at the end. And when it was over, all she could think about was the pain and soreness he had caused her, how shamed she was, how dirty she felt.
Wesley rolled off her and lay on his back, panting, and to her at that moment he was the same as Ralph Grizedale, the candyman. She couldn’t bear to look at him, lying there, smugly satisfied. Hurriedly, though her mind was numb with what had happened, Meg rearranged her clothing, pulling her torn and bloodied cotton drawers together, trying to make herself decent.
I’ll never be decent again, she thought dully with a sense of the irrevocable. She scrambled to her feet and pulled her shawl round her shoulders, turning her back on him. Would he boast about this to his marras in the pub tonight? she thought, feeling nauseous.
‘Meg! Meg, where are you off to?’
She didn’t answer. Instead she started to walk away back down to the path and on to the road, not even noticing the large red stain on her dress where the discarded strawberries had been crushed beneath her.
‘Meg!’ Wesley came after her and caught her elbow and she wrenched it away, her lips pressed tightly together to stop herself from screaming at him.
‘Meg, what ails you? You’re my girl now, it’s all right, I promise you.’
His girl? Meg shuddered at the thought of that awful thing happening to her again. No. Her face blushed a bright red and her eyes stung with the passion of her denial.
‘That’s the wrong way, Meg,’ she heard him call. He had stopped following her and she was thankful for that, but she halted and looked around her.
It was true, she was walking towards Old Eldon, not back to Winton Colliery. She bit her lip. She could see Wesley standing on the path grinning at her. He looked arrogantly pleased with himself, sure he was dealing with some feminine whim. She would come right in the end. She could see that that was what he was thinking. It was written on his face. Now she would have to walk past him to get on to the right road.
He waited for her, arms folded. By, she hated the grin on his face. She loathed and detested him. And he was so sure of his charms he couldn’t even see it.
As she came abreast of him she skirted the path so that she didn’t have to go near him. She was uncaring about the mud she got on her boots, wasn’t going to give him the chance to touch her again. Wesley, of course, had other ideas. As she drew closer he stepped forward and caught hold of her by the upper arms, holding her in a firm, steady grip.
‘Meg, hinny, what’s the matter with you? What did you expect was going to happen between a lad and a lass? You’ve come walking wi’ me twice, I thought you liked me.’
Meg shuddered, she couldn’t bear his hands on her arms. Loathing showed in her face and Wesley stepped back in surprise. Even he could not fail to see that. He dropped his arms abruptly and his grin faded, his expression hardening.
‘Hadaway then,’ he snapped grimly. ‘If that’s how you feel, why the hell did you come out with me in the first place?’
Meg didn’t answer, simply turned on her heel and walked on rapidly down the path. Why had she come out with him? She didn’t know, she couldn’t remember. His words rang in her ears: ‘What did you expect?’ She didn’t know what she had expected but she knew it wasn’t what had happened. Surely a lass should have some say in how far to go? Why did it have to be so brutish? Why did Wesley take no notice of her protests and struggles? Maybe it had all been her own fault, maybe she had led him to believe she wanted it to happen. She vowed she would never, never, let it happen again.
All the bones in her body ached and she felt as though a great bruise was covering her from the waist down. She stumbled slightly and a great weariness overtook her. She was aware that Wesley was following only a few steps behind her but didn’t look back. Her pace quickened. She walked blindly on, longing only to get home.
‘Hey, I say! Watch where you’re going. Whoa! Whoa!’
The voice startled her out of her misery. She had reached the end of the path and had almost walked into a man leading a stocky Dales pony. He had been busy opening the stock gate by the stile to let himself and his pony on to the path.
The horse nickered and pranced a little but settled down immediately when the man spoke to it, obediently going through the gate and standing patiently while he spoke to Meg.
‘Can’t you look where you’re going?’
‘I – I’m sorry,’ she muttered, her face flushing even redder than it had been. She looked up at him desperately, wanting the incident to be over and him to go so that she could be on her way before Wesley reached them. Dully, she took in the fact that he was more of a boy than a man, somewhere near her own age. And he was obviously gentry though his suit was threadbare.
‘Do I know you?’
Startled, her eyes opened wide at the query. He did look familiar but she couldn’t put a name to him. He frowned down at her, his face looking puzzled. She knew he was looking curiously at her face, could tell she had been weeping. She was embarrassed and looked quickly down to the ground.
Wesley caught up with her and she saw the gentleman’s lip curl slightly as he properly took in their dishevelled appearances and saw the red strawberry stains on their clothes. He mounted his horse and rode on up the path without waiting for her to answer his question. Gathering her skirt in one hand, Meg hurried over the stile and ran down the road to the village.
Jonty rode on and branched out over the fields for Grizedale Hall, but as he rode the image of her tear-stained face and flushed cheeks rose up in front of him. There was something about her: her fair, curly hair and her blue eyes fringed with thick lashes, bright and attractive in spite of being damp and reddened with weeping. Obviously he had interrupted a lovers’ quarrel. He rode on to the drive leading to Grizedale Hall, wondering why she seemed so familiar to him. As he got to the stables he realised who she looked like. It was a little girl he had seen in Phoebe Lowther’s kitchen. Bella, was it?
He sighed. Mrs Lowther had not been so welcoming the second time he went to see her. In fact, she had put him off going altogether. And she had hinted that his mother’s relatives wanted nothing to do with him, they simply weren’t interested. He remembered again the desolate feeling when they had left him as a young boy and they disappeared from his life, leaving him to his father. He wondered again what he had done to deserve it, what sin he had committed that they should have cut him off so completely.