Forgiven

by Ruth Sutton

  * * *

  Frank McSherry sat in his wheelchair in the front room of his house. They’d all been smoking since the first cups of tea three hours before, and cigarette smoke hung in the air. The front room was more crowded than usual. Violet’s brother, Tom Pickthall, was visiting from his lonely digs in Bransty. The McSherry’s son, Connor, and his family were at the in-laws this year, which was just as well; fitting them all in was getting harder as the children grew. Violet topped up the ale in Tom’s glass, then her husband’s, then John’s. She and her daughter were drinking gin and lemon. Frank read out the names of fifteen men killed in the Harrington pit earlier in the month. ‘Here’s to ’em all,’ he said. ‘Could’ve been me, or you, Tom. Fifteen more, killed in t’bloody pits. Death traps, all of ’em, allus have been.’

  ‘Why do you keep on working there, when it’s so bad?’ asked John.

  ‘It’s a job, lad,’ said Tom Pickthall. ‘Real money, man’s work. Like going to war. You know it could kill you but it’s what you ’ave to do. We all ’ave to die some’ow.’

  ‘To ’em all,’ said Frank, and they raised their glasses.

  Tom drank his beer, wiped his mouth and put the glass down on the bare table.

  ‘We’re allus last up ’ere,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘All them pits down south, and in Wales, nationalised already, and how long will it take ’em to get it done up ’ere?’

  ‘And what difference when they do?’ said Frank. ‘Never change, these pits. Accidents’ll keep ’appening, no matter who’s in charge. My legs, those poor buggers in Harrington. Who’s next? Could be any of us, any time.’

  ‘For pity’s sake,’ said Violet. ‘It’s Christmas Day. Can’t we talk about summat more cheerful than pits and work? Should’ve come to midnight mass with me and Maggie, our Tom. Father Pryce does a lovely service, teks your mind off such things.’

  ‘He knows nowt about pits,’ said Maggie. ‘Can’t talk about what you don’t know.’

  ‘He’s a good priest,’ said her mother. ‘Better than some I could mention. Knows what to do.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Allus asks where you are, Frank,’ she said.

  ‘Tek more than ’im to get me out of the ’ouse at that time o’ night,’ said Frank.

  ‘E said ’e might come to visit,’ said Violet.

  Frank groaned. ‘You’ll ’ave to stick around a bit longer, Tom. Protect me from that long streak o’ –’

  ‘Frank,’ said Violet. ‘That’s enough.’

  * * *

  There were six people for Christmas lunch at Applegarth, seated comfortably round the oval table that shone with glass and silver cutlery, and the large silver gilt platters that Agnes’s mother had given to her just before she died. Agnes was in charge of course, loving her role as hostess, with Jessie close beside her to help. Lionel had recovered from his stroke sufficiently to be there, although his wife had driven the new Bentley that was parked in the driveway like a royal coach. Matthew Dawson had left his car at the top of the drive, which his daughter Ann had been none too pleased about because of her new and rather delicate shoes.

  Once the steaming soup was ladled into dishes and they could settle down to it, Agnes did her duty to bring the relative stranger into the conversation.

  ‘We’re so pleased you could be with us, Ann dear. You and I both spend much of our time in London, but it’s so vast, isn’t it? Much easier to meet people here rather than there.’

  ‘They keep us busy at the Royal College,’ said Ann, ‘not much time for anything else really. And I come up to see Daddy when I have a few days clear. That’s my life really, singing, working, all those essays and things. Busy, busy.’

  ‘She’s doing really well, too,’ said her father. ‘Aren’t you, darling? Your mother would have been so proud.’

  ‘Mummy had a fine voice,’ said Ann, looking at Jessie. ‘She was so talented.’

  They murmured agreement. Lionel slurped his soup, and Caroline put down her spoon. ‘So sorry everyone. Soup is quite a challenge, isn’t it dear? Could we have a mug or a cup for Lionel, Agnes?’

  In the flurry of apologies and trips to the kitchen, Jessie took the opportunity to have a good look at Ann. She was Matthew’s younger daughter, training to be a singer at the Royal College of Music in London, that much she knew. Now she was wondering what her father had told her.

  Matthew and Jessie had enjoyed their weekly trips to the pictures since that first time, the day of Jessie’s unwelcome encounter with John’s red-headed friend. Nothing more had been heard from her, as expected, but nothing from John either, which Jessie was more concerned about. Matthew had been a perfect gentleman; once or twice he had reached for her hand in the darkness of the cinema, and the kiss on the cheek at the end of the evening had become a little more prolonged, but nothing untoward. He was kind, patient, reliable and polite. Jessie admired him for those qualities. He’s such a nice man, she thought.

  Matthew wished he’d said more to Ann about Jessie, before today. He could feel his daughter’s anxiety, and see Jessie watching, becoming more guarded. Maybe taking things so slowly had not been the best plan. Ann was not a child, and she had no right to dictate how he lived his life as a widower. But this was neither the time nor the place for dealing with any of it. They would get through this occasion, Jessie and he would continue to see each other, and enjoy each other’s company, and Ann would have to come to terms with it. But not today.

  ‘How’s that nephew of yours?’ Lionel’s voice boomed across the room. The stroke had affected the precision of his speech, not the volume. Agnes looked up, to see how Jessie would respond.

  ‘He’s fine, thank you, Lionel. Still working hard at the Haig, running the wages office there by the sound of it, doing really well.’

  ‘Married yet?’ Lionel continued. ‘Fine young filly at the table. Pity he’s not here.’

  Caroline coughed into her napkin. ‘Now Lionel dear, that’s enough,’ she said. Jessie imagined he was being kicked under the table.

  Ann looked down at her hands.

  ‘Well, that boy’s quite a catch,’ Lionel went on, then winced and looked sharply at his wife. ‘What’s the matter with your legs?’ he said.

  Jessie lowered her head to hide a smile.

  ‘John is a very agreeable young man,’ said Caroline, trying hard to limit the damage, ‘and I’m sure he’ll find someone when he’s ready.’

  Ann looked up and spoke. ‘I really don’t understand why we expect everyone to be married, not these days. I’m perfectly happy on my own, and you are too, aren’t you, Daddy, still grieving for Mother? Why would we want to rush into anything else?’

  Matthew glanced at Ann. Jessie noticed that he looked uncomfortable. She also realised with mounting irritation that Ann’s remarks were clearly aimed at her. First the Lowery woman and now this. Two young women, both apparently telling her what to do. And at the Christmas table, too. She could feel herself blushing and hoped that the low light would hide it.

  ‘I’m sure we all have our reasons for the choices we make,’ she said, as carefully as she could. ‘And those reasons may not be clear to anyone else, however close they are to us.’

  Ann was not to be deterred. ‘I’m just speaking for myself, of course, Jessie,’ she went on in her refined small voice, ‘and as the person who knows my father best.’

  She looked around the table as if seeking agreement, but the other guests were not to be drawn.

  Agnes noticed the flush on Jessie’s neck. She looked at the watch on her wrist, and got to her feet.

  ‘Matthew, if I bring the turkey in, will you carve?’

  ‘Certainly,’ he responded, hoping that Ann would stop before any more damage was done. There was indeed a necessary respite while the needs of the meal interrupted the skirmishing at the table. When Jessie went into the kitchen to help with the vegetables, Agnes closed the door and whispered,

  “Has he asked you? Is that’s what bothering Ann?’
/>   ‘Who?’ said Jessie. ‘Who’s asked me what?’

  ‘You know very well, dear. Matthew, has he asked you to marry him?’

  ‘No he has not,’ said Jessie, ‘and even if …’

  The kitchen door opened. ‘Can I help?’ said Caroline, her face a picture of curiosity. Jessie picked up a dish of potatoes and left the room without a word.

  Later, when Jessie and Agnes stood side by side at the sink, Agnes felt the need to break a frosty silence.

  ‘Of course you’re annoyed,’ she said. ‘Ann had no right to be so pointed about it, but she obviously doesn’t want her father to marry again so soon.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ said Jessie. ‘That young woman needs to mind her own business. I will not be dictated to. If Matthew asked me, which he has not, I would make up my mind without any help from little Miss Narrow Mind, or anyone else.’

  ‘Do you think he will ask you?’ Agnes persisted.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Agnes, let it drop, please.’ Jessie threw down the tea towel she was holding and took off her apron. ‘Matthew is a fine man, and has been a perfect gentleman on the few occasions when we have been out together. He has not swept me off my feet, if that’s what you want to hear. I know you think I’m leading him on, but just at present, it would be nice to see a way out.’

  ‘A way out of what?’

  ‘Out of having no job, and nowhere to live, and being patronised by young women, and no bread, and coupons and not even having enough coal for the fire. A change would be good, and if I want to make a change, I will, no matter who may disapprove.’ Jessie’s voice was becoming shrill, and Agnes said nothing more.

  * * *

  It was late when Tom Pickthall and John walked back to Sandwith. The night was cold and clear and stars grew brighter as they walked south, away from the lights of the town. There was no space in the West Row house for Tom to sleep over, and John’s offer of the spare room in his cottage had been rapidly accepted.

  ‘You were married, weren’t you, Tom?’ John asked.

  ‘Aye,’ said Tom, ‘I was that. She were a wonderful woman, my Honor. We were ’aving our first babby, Christmas time, 1925. She were just twenty-five ’erself, same age as century.’

  ‘What happened?’ said John.

  ‘Summat went wrong. Midwife – well, not a proper one like, just a woman who ’elped out – she thought she knew what to do, but then we had to get the doctor, and ’e were out somewhere. By the time he got there, it were too late. Baby were dead and then Honor died, too. They couldn’t save ’er. Worst night o’ my life. And every Christmas, I ’ave to remember it all over.’

  John winced. ‘And now I’m asking you about it. I’m very sorry, Tom. It must’ve been awful.’

  ‘It ’appened in them days, lad, not like now. Doctors do more these days. Then they seemed think that some women just died in childbirth and nowt to be done. Our Vi says that if it were men who ’ave babies summat would’ve been done about it ages since.’

  Probably true, John thought to himself. But he wanted to say more.

  ‘Can I ask you something, Tom, about your wife?’

  ‘I love to talk about her, lad, and don’t get the chance. People think it might be too painful, so they never mention ’er.’

  ’Where did you meet her?’

  ‘We were down the dance hall, the Roxy in Silloth, and she were there wi’ a gang o’ lasses. I liked the look of ’er, and one of ’er mates came up bold as brass and said that she liked look of me. Would never’ve ’appened before the war. Any road, we ’ad a dance like, and that were it.’

  ‘How did you know you wanted to get married? How old were you?’

  ‘Just twenty-three in the week we were wed. And she were twenty. We were nobbut kids, the pair on us. Lived wi’ ’er folks for years before we got a place. Wanted kiddies right from the off, but nothing ’appened like. She ’ad a few, you know, slip-ups, but we never gave up trying. Well we weren’t really trying at all, just enjoying each other, like. Then after all those years she managed to ’ang on to one, and it killed ’er. Broke me ’eart. Lost the kiddie, too, but I never knew ’im. It were my Honor I wanted. Never met anyone like ’er, before or since.’

  John was listening carefully, thinking. ‘D’you think there’s just one person, out there, for each of us, Tom?’

  ‘God knows, lad. I know if you find a woman you want, and who wants you, and you’re sure, you should get on wi’ it. Life’s short.’

  They walked in silence for a while, their footsteps muffled by the muddy lanes as they dropped down towards the village and John’s house.

  ‘Is it our Maggie, the one for you?’ said Tom. ‘You look well together, the pair of you.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to work out, Tom. I think it is, but she’s so, well, so much livelier than me. She’d get bored with me. And then you’re stuck, stuck together. Don’t think I’d ever get bored with her.’

  Tom laughed. ‘Not much chance o’ that. It’s that hair, makes ’er fiery, too.’

  They reached the house. It was cold inside and they kept their heavy coats on and enjoyed the remains of a bottle of whisky before heading off to bed.

  ‘I reckon you should just ask ’er, John,’ said Tom, holding the empty glass in his hand as if to warm himself in its glow, ‘If she don’t want you, she’ll say so. She’s been wed before, knows ’er mind where that’s concerned.’

  ‘What was he like, her Isaac?’

  ‘Shouldn’t speak ill of the fallen, but ’e were a waste o’ space, that man. Allus sad when a young man dies, don’t get me wrong, but she were better off without ’im. He were nobbut a lad ’imself. Home on leave once, just for a few days and most of them ’e were pissed as a newt. Then ’e were off again and that were the last we saw of ’im.’

  ‘Has Maggie had, you know, boyfriends since then?’

  ‘Could’ve, fine looking lass like that, but I don’t reckon she ’as. You know what they’re like, them McSherrys, talking all the time. I would’ve ’eard – ’eard about you fast enough.’

  ‘Me?’ said John. ‘What did you hear? When?’

  ‘Months ago, after you were at th’ouse and that ’am fell through the ceiling. Our Violet was bothered about you not being a Catholic. She and Maggie ’ad a bit of a to-do about it. Frank reckoned right off that you fancied our Maggie and she could do a lot worse, that’s what ’e said.’

  John blushed. So much for discretion. ‘He was right about me fancying her,’ he said, laughing. ‘I thought she was the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen. Still do.’

  ‘So what you waiting for, lad? You’re a reet good catch, she’d be mad to turn you down. Good job, nice little ’ouse.’

  ‘That’s the problem. I want her to love me, not the job and the house.’

  ‘Get o’er it, ’ said Tom, putting the glass down and pushing himself with difficulty out of the low chair. ‘You think too much.’

  ‘That’s what Maggie says.’

  ‘And she’s bright, too,’ said Tom. ‘Life’s too short. Grab it while you can.’

  ‘What about the Catholic thing? Does it matter?’

  ‘Not to our Maggie. But Vi? Not so sure about that. She wants our Maggie to be ’appy, and that means ’aving a proper wedding, and the priest, all that. You might have to go and see Father whatsisname, but I can’t see it being a problem. If Maggie wants you, she’ll get you, church or no church. She’s in no rush, I reckon, not after the last time. But don’t wait too long, lad.’

  CHAPTER 13

  NEW YEAR’S DAY. THE SKY WAS CLEAR, and light in the east just a gleam on the horizon, catching the white of snow and frost on the tops of the mountains The freezing air was perfectly still. In the barn behind John’s house in Sandwith, beasts were awake and chewing, creating tiny wreaths of steam. John woke suddenly. He knew there was someone in the house: a faint sound, a draught. He sat up on his elbows. He had no recollection of going to bed. He was in his underwear and his head a
ched.

  ‘Hello?’ he called out, looking around for his clothes and boots. He felt trapped. The bedroom door was closed, and he could hear the stairs creaking. He pulled the blankets up to his neck with both hands and watched as the door opened slowly.

  Maggie stood in the doorway, looking across at him. At the sight of her he blew out the breath he’d been holding and fell back onto the bed. ‘I thought you were a burglar or summat,’ he said, turning his head to look at her. She hadn’t moved, still standing in the doorway, a long dark coat almost to her ankles and a bright green shawl pulled up over her head. She was smiling at him.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ she said.

  John sat up again, clutching the blankets up to his chin. ‘What time is it? How did you get in?’

  ‘It’s early. No one else in our ’ouse was going to be up for hours, and it was so clear and calm. I was going to walk to St Bees Head, the way we walked that first time, and when I came past your ’ouse I wondered if you’d be up. I went to knock on t’door and it was open, so I came in.’

  ‘The door was open?’

  ‘Not wide open, but not locked.’

  ‘Who left it open?’ He was puzzled and his head was protesting.

  ‘You look terrible,’ she said. ‘What did you do last night?’

  He struggled to remember. ‘I wanted a quiet evening. Can’t manage all that New Year’s Eve noise.’ A shadow of memory flitted across his brain and he groaned. ‘I must’ve dozed off downstairs before midnight. Then Albert from next door came in and said I had to do their first-foot and dragged me out. They gave me a piece of coal and I had to cross the threshold, and have a drink. Then someone else came and said I had to do it for them, across the green. It’s supposed to be someone tall and dark apparently, or that’s what they said. Those folk gave me a drink as well, and then some other people arrived with a bottle of whisky, and I can’t remember much after that … I must have woken up when you opened the door.’

  ‘You were so drunk, they must have put you to bed. Look,’ she said, pointing to the little chair by the window, ‘there are your boots and your clothes, all piled up neatly.’