Forgiven

by Ruth Sutton

  ‘That we’d been to bed together? Come on, Agnes, say it. It was a mistake, maybe, but it wasn’t evil. We were both unattached, no one else involved.’

  ‘But he was so young,’ said Agnes.

  ‘Yes, I know, and my friend’s son, and he had girls all over the county. I knew all that. That was part of it, why I wanted him.’

  Agnes shook her head.

  Jessie went on, remembering the turmoil of those weeks with Andrew. ‘He was young, and handsome and he had lots of women and he chose me. I was flattered, can’t you see that?’

  Agnes shook her head again. ‘You could have said no.’

  Jessie got to her feet. ‘Don’t say any more. Just leave it. I hoped you’d back me up, against Alan, and the vicar if it comes to that. If you can’t, fine. But don’t rake all that stuff up again.’

  She picked up her coat from the back of a chair by the door. ‘I’m going home now. Don’t judge me, Agnes, please. You have always supported me about John. Don’t back away from me now.’

  Agnes watched her friend, her dear friend, walking quickly up the drive and out of sight. The only thing she wanted, the only thing she had ever wanted, was for she and Jessie to live in this house, together. John would be a son for them both, and they would love him as much as they loved each other. But the years had passed and the dream had never come any closer, until now. If Jessie didn’t have the schoolhouse, she could move into Applegarth. It wasn’t too late.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE ENVELOPE ON THE WORN CARPET by the front door of the schoolhouse had Jessie’s name on it. She looked at it, her mind a blur – anything unexpected made her nervous now. For weeks she’d feared that things were about to unravel, and sometimes the anticipation made her feel quite sick. She picked up the envelope and examined it carefully. The postmark was Cockermouth. Matthew? He had written to her, after the party, saying how much he’d enjoyed seeing her, and hoping to see her again, but he’d not mentioned anything specific. Maybe he wanted her to suggest something. So much for plain speaking.

  But this was Caroline Leadbetter’s writing. Something might have happened to Andrew. Did they know, she wondered? Had they ever guessed about their son? Surely there would have been some sign, however discreet they tried to be. She must have been deranged. In a way she had been. Part of her had wanted him so badly, even while the respectable part had known that it was madness and that it would never work. And then, there was that night, when it all went wrong. She willed herself not to think about it. ‘Beyond reproach’.

  Perhaps it wasn’t about Andrew at all. She tore open the letter and skimmed through it. It was about Lionel. Caroline’s handwriting was less tidy than usual.

  I’m sorry to tell you, Jessie, that Lionel has been taken ill. We were with friends in Lamplugh on Saturday evening. In the middle of dinner he suddenly stood up, opened his mouth to say something and then just collapsed. He’d been holding the tablecloth – terrible mess everywhere. We carried him to the car, what a blessing there were people there to help. The hospital said he’d had a stroke. I think I knew that already. He couldn’t speak, or move his left side. His mouth was drooping, all the classic signs.

  They sent me home, and the Stallards stayed with me at the vicarage overnight. Such kind people. Now they’ve gone and I have to let people know. I’ve sent a telegram to Andrew in Toronto, just in case. You know what it’s like between him and Lionel, but he might want to come and I think Lionel would want to see him. With all his friends in the air force he might be able to get here quickly, if he wants to.

  Could you telephone me when you get this? Sorry to burden you with all this, Jessie. I know how busy you are.

  In haste,

  Caroline

  It was a shock. Lionel Leadbetter had always seemed larger than life: big man, big voice, big reputation in the village and beyond. But his plan in 1937 to rebuild the school at the parishioners’ expense had been a step too far. Lionel had expected all the villagers to pay for it, or give their work for nothing, and that was never going to happen, not with money so tight. In the end the diocese had stepped in but things were never the same. After the war started they’d given him a new parish in Cockermouth, and he’d only just retired. Gideon Barker was as tight as Lionel had been … ‘unbuttoned’ – that was the word. And now the big man was very sick, by the sound of it. She needed to talk to Caroline.

  She took the Applegarth key off its customary hook in the schoolhouse pantry and let herself in shortly after eight. The house was cool, and smelled of polish. Nellie Kitchin must have been in to clean as she did every week, whether Agnes was there or not; the regular payments were a lifeline to Nellie and her family now that her Bill was gone. Agnes left ration coupons in a drawer for her, not knowing as everyone else did that Nellie sold them for the extra cash.

  Jessie looked at the telephone crouching on the hall table, shiny and black with a round face and big ears. She still didn’t like it. Agnes had installed a telephone before anyone else in Newton, but then she was always first with the new things, always had the latest model of car, and fashionable clothes. Caroline’s telephone number was in the book in the hallstand drawer. Jessie dialled the operator and repeated the number carefully. There was a short pause before she heard it ringing.

  ‘The Leadbetter home,’ said the familiar voice.

  ‘Caroline, it’s Jessie.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, thank you so much for calling. I know you don’t like the telephone.’ Caroline’s voice sounded nervous, and she was talking so fast that Jessie struggled to take in what she said. She gathered that there was some improvement, but Lionel was still unable to speak, and it would be a while before they knew how long it would take … Caroline’s voice faltered.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ Jessie asked.

  ‘Come up to the hospital when you can. They say he needs to see people, be reminded who he is and so forth. And can you tell Agnes? I don’t know how to contact her in London. Just tell her what’s happened but not to worry, and not to come back specially. The girls will help, and so many friends, and maybe Andrew too. I’ve asked him to come, but you know how things are between him and his father.’

  Jessie could hear that Caroline was starting to cry.

  ‘I’ll track Agnes down, dear,’ said Jessie. ‘You get some rest. This must be so hard for you. I’ll get the bus up to the hospital tomorrow after school. I’ll see you then.’

  Jessie replaced the receiver carefully on its cradle and sat on a little chair in the darkness of the hall. She hadn’t seen Andrew since that night in 1937, just after Christmas, when he’d bolted for Canada. He’d written to her but she hadn’t replied, except once after his accident. She’d sent him a note then, just a few words to wish him well. When a reply came, thanking her, it had been written by someone else. What would he do, she wondered. War changes everything, and Andrew had been lucky to survive. Maybe family feuds feel different when life is so fragile.

  For the next few days, prompted by her visit to Lionel and conversation with Caroline, Jessie could not get Andrew out of her mind. Memories of him suffused her house. As she lay in bed she felt his weight beside her, on her, and the warmth of his body. She remembered the night that had finished it, when he was drunk and forced himself on her. Some of the details had faded but the feeling of shame and humiliation had not. She’d forgiven him too quickly, she knew that now, but it was so long ago, and she had to forgive herself.

  It was nearly two weeks after Caroline’s letter, and quite late in the evening, when Jessie heard someone knocking on the back door of the schoolhouse. She knew immediately that it was Andrew. No one else ever came to the back door. He had always done so, to avoid being seen. She found it hard to breathe. Another knock, louder this time, and his voice, ‘Jessie, are you there?’

  She ran both hands through her hair, pinched her cheeks, took a deep breath and opened the door. Andrew Leadbetter stood at the bottom of the steps. His hat was pulled down over his
face, but she knew it was him.

  Jessie stood back, and he stepped up and past her, a bag over his shoulder. She smelt tobacco on his clothes. ‘Come through,’ she said, as normally as she could manage, leading the way into the small front room and closing the curtains before turning up the lamp.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Leave it.’

  ‘Someone might see us from out there,’ she said, aware of the village all around her.

  Andrew put down his bag. ‘I don’t care about that. I want to tell you – before you see me.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘About this,’ he said, taking off his hat and turning the right side of his face towards her. Even in the low light she could see the scarring, the glossy skin pulled tight, the eye slightly askew.

  ‘It looks better than it did,’ he said. ‘That’s why I didn’t come before, when we were stood down. The treatment took a long time. My hands as well. Look.’

  He took off his gloves and held up his hands, turning them to show her the damage, before he sat down on a small chair and looked at her.

  Jessie sat down, her hand to her mouth. She remembered his hands and his fingers, strong and confident on her body. Now they were claws, gnarled and bent.

  ‘What happened?’ she said. ‘Caroline never told me.’

  ‘I told her not to say anything. When I went home to Canada last year I wanted you to remember me as I was before, not like this.’

  ‘I do remember,’ she said. ‘I remember too much.’

  Andrew looked away. ‘I was young and stupid. I don’t drink now, I swear to you, not since then. I know what I did to you.’

  They sat in silence on opposite sides of the room. The oil lamp hissed.

  ‘It’s cold in here,’ she said. ‘Keep your coat on. I’ll light the fire.’ Fussing with the coals in the grate gave her a few minutes to slow down her heart.

  A short while later the fire was beginning to warm the room. Andrew took off his big coat and hung it on a hook behind the door. She noticed the white scarf that he unwound from his neck.

  ‘I’ve seen those scarves in pictures of air force men,’ she said. ‘Can I feel it?’ The scarf was luxuriant, smooth and warm from his skin.

  ‘Silk,’ he said, watching her. ‘We all wear them, for the cold.’

  ‘It feels wonderful,’ she said, putting the soft fabric to her cheek. The smell of him, ingrained into the fibres, jolted her memory but she said nothing more, handed the scarf back to him and escaped into the kitchen. When she returned with tea for them both, Andrew pulled on his gloves to protect his hands from the heat, and they sat facing each other on either side of the fireplace.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ she said.

  He looked at the fire, seeing a city in flames. ‘It was early in ’45, last year. We were coming back from a raid on Dresden. Bombed the poor bastards to hell. Took a hit, one engine and the landing gear shot away, but we were OK. Fuel was leaking, so we had to find a strip. When we found one, another plane had landed just ahead of us, slewed right across the runway. We hit it. I was rear gunner. Fuel and fire everywhere, couldn’t get the hood off. They smashed it in the end and pulled me out, but not before …’ He held up his gloved hands.

  ‘I ended up at East Grinstead, where they took the burns cases. Dozens of our lads were there. They did special surgery at the hospital, remaking faces, noses, hands. Most of them were much worse than me. I was lucky. Stayed in London for a while before they sent me back. Had to learn to write with my other hand. It was bloody difficult.’

  ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘Why? I didn’t want you to feel sorry for me. Didn’t want your pity.’

  Jessie looked across at him. ‘When Caroline told me you were in bombers I thought I’d never see you again.’

  ‘I never forgot you,’ he said, fumbling for something in his coat pocket. He held out a scrap of paper towards her. It was a photograph, creased and repaired with tape. She took it from him and held it towards the light; it was an image of herself, younger, smiling, holding a puppy in her arms, hair blowing across her face.

  ‘Mother sent it,’ he said, ‘early on, before the war. They were in the picture too, Mother and the old man, but I cut them out and kept it. I carried it with me right through, inside my flying jacket, on every raid. The other guys had their wives and their kids. I had you.’

  Jessie stared at the picture. Then she handed it back to him. He looked so tired.

  ‘Sit still,’ she said, kneeling down to untie his shoes. He didn’t move. ‘Stretch out while I make some food. When did you last eat?’

  ‘Hours ago. I’ll just close my eyes for a while.’

  As she watched, his taut, scarred face relaxed. He folded his gloved hands on his chest and slept.

  The smell of food woke him and they ate in silence. As soon as he had finished, he stretched out again and fell instantly back to sleep. It was late. She went upstairs and lay on her bed, but didn’t get undressed. When she woke with the grey light of dawn, Andrew was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, looking at her. She sat up with a gasp. He didn’t move from the doorway. She couldn’t see his face clearly.

  ‘I’ll make us a drink,’ he said, and turned away. She listened to his footsteps on the stairs and wondered how long he had been there.

  She heated water for Andrew to wash and shave, and fried some scraps of bacon with two eggs from Nellie’s hens and two slices of bread. They sat down together at the small table in the kitchen.

  ‘Does anyone know you’re here?’ Jessie asked.

  He smiled his new lop-sided smile.

  ‘Still worried about that?’

  ‘Of course. Newton’s the same place it always was.’

  ‘No one knows I’m here. I told Mother I’d get to Cockermouth sometime today. Managed to hitch a ride with an old buddy who was taking a plane to Scotland. He dropped me at Prestwick and I got the train down here. I can be at Mother’s today as expected, and no one any the wiser.’

  ‘You were very tired,’ she said.

  ‘No sleep on the way over. Up and down for refuelling, nowhere to get comfortable. Noisy too. I feel better now. Bit stiff though. I think I ended up on the floor.’

  ‘You could have had the spare bed.’

  ‘Too tired to be bothered. Can’t take the stairs two at a time like I used to.’ He looked at her. ‘You’ve hardly changed at all, Jess. Still so beautiful.’

  ‘I’m nearly fifty, Andrew, and I look it.’

  ‘No, you don’t. And if you did, it wouldn’t make any difference to me. I love what I see, I always have.’

  ‘Don’t say any more,’ she said. ‘It’s not real, Andrew. None of this is real.’

  He said no more, and they ate in silence. She noticed how he held his fork in one hand, like Americans did in films. But it was his left hand. The right hand, and the right side of his face were the most damaged. When he turned the other side of his face towards her, it looked just the same as before. The same handsome face she’d loved, the same tall strong body.

  ‘Do you know the train you need to get?’ she said, determined to keep the conversation light. She could feel herself thinking about the time before, the time they’d spent together in her room upstairs. ‘Your father’s still very ill. I saw him the other day. He looked frail – “reduced” your mother called it.’

  ‘I’m not here for him,’ said Andrew. ‘I’m here because Mother asked me to come. The old man and I have nothing to say that’s not been said a dozen times before. If he’s recovering, I won’t stay. Work’s busy. I want to get back.’

  Nothing had changed: still the same old resentment towards his father, even after all that had happened.

  ‘Tell me about Canada,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to leave just yet.’

  They talked for a while, about his job in Toronto, about his apartment.

  ‘They’ve been very good to me, about this,’ he said, raising his hands. ‘I’m good at what I
do, Jess, and they help me to do it. You could come over too, really. Not to look after me, for yourself. Come and see how we could live. It’s a fresh start, away from the rationing and the misery of it all.’

  Jessie said nothing, her mind a jumble of possibilities.

  He hesitated, looking at his watch.

  ‘Shall I come back here, before I go home?’

  ‘No,’ she said, without hesitation. ‘It was good to see you. But I couldn’t …’

  ‘I know, you need time,’ he said. ‘But I want you to think about it. England’s finished. This place is dead. America, Canada, Australia, that’s where the future is. People can live over there, not just exist. I have a good life, despite everything. I want that for you, too.’

  He took her hand and held it tight. ‘All your life you’ve struggled, Jessie, but it doesn’t have to be that way. I still love you. You loved me once, and you could again. Think what we had, what we still have.’

  He leaned across the narrow table and kissed her. The feel of his mouth was intense, but she turned her face to one side. ‘It’s no good,’ she said. ‘I can’t think with you here.’

  ‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘When you want to come over, just tell me and I’ll send the money for the ship. Anytime. I’ve left the address in the other room.’

  Andrew took his big coat from the hook on the door and put it on. Jessie picked up his bag, but he took it from her and set it down on the floor again. Then he put his arms around her and they stood together, her face buried in his shoulder. She felt the same strength she’d always loved, and feared she would never find again. Then he picked up his bag and was gone.

  CHAPTER 4

  AT EXACTLY TWENTY MINUTES PAST SEVEN John Pharaoh shut and locked the front door of his house in Sandwith, turned to the north and walked up the hill out of the village along the windy ridge towards Whitehaven and the Haig pit in Kells where he worked. He’d been there only two weeks after several years at a different pit in the town. He felt more at ease now that the new routines were starting to take shape.