by Ruth Sutton
‘Let me help you with those,’ he called, just in time: following her into the school would have looked too deliberate. He was determined to talk to her, to check his instinct about her, and this was his chance. She turned, saw him coming and propped the boxes against the wall, leaning against them to keep them steady while he hurried towards her. She smiled at him, thankful for his help. Her hair fell in long curls round her face, caught by the wind. They struggled awkwardly for a few moments while he took the boxes from her.
‘Where do you want these?’ he asked, looking down at her as she retreated down the steps to give him room.
‘I’ll show you,’ she said, squeezing past him into the narrow hallway of the schoolhouse. He caught the faint smell of her and breathed it in. She opened a door at the far end of the hallway, and he followed her through towards the opposite side of the room, where cupboard doors stood open.
‘I had to make space for this stuff before I could bring it in,’ she said. ‘If you put the boxes down on the floor, I’ll get some of the children to help me unpack them later this afternoon. That’s very kind of you, Andrew. There are two more like this just outside where the carter dropped them. Do you think you could manage those as well? “Get a man in, dear,” my friend Agnes always says when there’s a tricky job to do, and in this case, I think she’s right!’
‘Then I’m your man,’ replied Andrew, ‘show me the rest and we’ll have this done in no time.’
The rest of the boxes were carried into the back room, Jessie holding doors where necessary. When the job was done they sat on the boxes for a minute and Jessie began to pin back the hair that the wind had loosed from its combs and slides.
‘It’s strange isn’t it,’ she said. ‘We haven’t had a conversation for so long and then in just a few days …’
Jessie could see his eyes now. Pale blue.
‘You were at poor Alice’s funeral, weren’t you?’ she continued. ‘That was a bad day. It was good of you to be there. I was too upset for conversation, I’m afraid. She was just a child, and there’s no justice in a child’s death.’
Andrew didn’t respond, and turned away from her.
‘Will you be at the harvest supper on Saturday?’ he asked, thinking of when he might see her again.
‘I hope so,’ she answered, making up her mind about it on the spot.
He could find no excuse for staying longer and went on his way down to the shop. He smiled as he walked: she was coming closer, he could sense it.
Chapter 10
Jessie sat in the hairdresser’s chair in Whitehaven and looked at herself in the mirror. The unforgiving mirror was always the hardest part of having her hair cut, and the reason why she didn’t do so very often. Long hair had been useful when she first started at the school and wanted to look older than she was. Then she wore it up and pinned to control its thickness and curl, or pulled into the nape of her neck, and she didn’t need a hairdresser very often. Now she wasn’t sure how she wanted to look and had been putting this visit off for a while. Connie the hairdresser stood behind her, pushing one hand abstractedly through the thick hair and looking at Jessie in the mirror.
‘Why don’t we do something different this time, Miss Whelan? More 1937.’
‘You mean less 1837,’ said Jessie. ‘Sometimes I catch sight of myself and I look like my grandmother. I know I need to do something but it’s just easier to have a trim and avoid the decision till next time.’
‘Well, here we are at “next time”,’ said Connie. ‘You had your hair like this when I was at school, and that must be twelve years ago nearly. It’s such lovely hair, needs setting off, like, to make the most of it. I don’t mean one of those short glossy styles like the Duchess of Windsor, I mean something fuller, to make the most of the curl.’ Connie held her hands at either side of Jessie’s face, cupping the hair to show how it might look.
‘Look at that,’ she said. ‘See how much younger you are.’
Jessie looked. It was true. She looked more like when she was a girl, in Barrow, all those years ago.
‘Tell you what,’ said Connie. ‘If you’re not in a hurry, why don’t I get on with Mrs Whittaker and leave you to have a think about it. I’ll bring you the book of styles and you can tell me if anything appeals to you. You can sit over there until we’re ready.’
Jessie checked the watch on her wrist. She didn’t have to meet Agnes until eleven: plenty of time for once. She tried to look at the book Connie had given her but the images in her head were more powerful. For the second time in a few days, she was thinking of Clive and the intensity of his pale body.
Two hours later Jessie walked down to the end of Lowther Street and found Agnes’s car, where her friend was sitting reading the newspaper. Jessie knocked on the window.
‘Oh my word,’ said Agnes, looking up. ‘Wait a minute.’
Agnes got out of the car and looked across at Jessie to get the full effect. She smiled.
‘My dear, what a transformation. Takes years off you! Turn your head, let me see the back. Lovely. All you need now is something to set it off. What time is it? Eleven? Plenty of time. Come on. We’re going to the Beehive.’
Jessie protested, but only a little. She felt good. Shopping for clothes hadn’t been planned that day, and she didn’t have enough money with her, but Agnes would hear no objections. Before the Beehive closed at noon, Agnes had picked out a sea green jacket, and a dark brown skirt that showed off Jessie’s waist. They even found a light silky scarf that picked up the green in the jacket and in Jessie’s eyes. Agnes dealt with the sales assistant with enviable confidence and paid for everything from a roll of banknotes worthy of a Chicago gangster. Jessie’s routine Saturday morning in Whitehaven had turned into something else entirely. She hardly recognised herself.
As she put on a touch of lipstick before heading for the harvest supper at six-thirty that evening, Jessie allowed herself to wonder if Andrew would be there, and then stopped herself. She was his mother’s generation. His mother was her friend. ‘You can look good for your own sake, Jessie,’ she said to her image in the dressing-table mirror, ‘not just to please someone else, let alone a young man.’ She picked up the new jacket, went downstairs and walked over to the village hall. Despite herself, she looked for Andrew’s motorbike, and was relieved to see that it wasn’t there. Now she could relax and enjoy herself without the anxiety of meeting him again.
The weather had come good just in time and the harvest was indeed ‘safely gathered in’. Some years it was so late that the men were still working in the fields as the old harvest hymns were being sung in the little church by the river. Jessie hadn’t fully understood what harvest time was really about until she moved to Newton. Here it was the busiest time of the year in the fields, and in the orchards where plums and apples weighed down the branches, waiting for a small army of children to shake and pick the branches bare. Newton kitchens smelled of fruit for days, and in lofts and attics apples were laid carefully side by side but not touching, to keep through the winter months. Hay was cut and dried, and lanes were clogged with carts and horses taking it back to the barns. There was talk of a tractor doing the work of several horses and many men in farms further south, but not here, not yet.
The harvest supper followed a familiar pattern each year. Large shepherd’s pies were prepared in kitchens around the village and brought to the hall wrapped in cloths to keep them warm. Trestle tables and benches were laid out in rows the length of the hall, with cutlery and pickles. Agnes and Jessie had helped to arrange everything in the afternoon, with Caroline Leadbetter and Mrs Scattergood. Even Kath Eilbeck had turned up for an hour, and they’d been pleased to accept help. Moving tables and benches was heavy work. ‘Get a man in, dear,’ they chorused when Agnes complained about moving the furniture. Tables were covered with bright tablecloths and the hall was lit with oil lamps.
Jessie sat with Caroline Leadbetter, leaving a space for Lionel to join them. The benches filled up as familie
s arrived together. She and Caroline talked about the storm as they waited for Lionel to say grace and the meal to begin. For the first time Jessie heard the details of the rescue on the beach, and Andrew’s part in saving the life of a young man in the surf. Both women noticed when Nelly Kitchin came in with her children. No sign of their father.
‘Poor Nelly,’ Jessie whispered to her friend. ‘She must feel the loss at times like this. Last year Alice was here with us, looking so fresh and alive.’
‘I’ve always wondered about that,’ said Caroline, leaning in close to Jessie to hide their conversation. ‘The police and the coroner seemed to accept that she’d just slipped and fallen, but I wonder. She was a strong girl, impetuous. Maybe that was the problem, taking a risk, not being careful. Just like her. It can be treacherous down near the bridge, and it was very dark that night, but I still can’t bear to think of her calling for help or struggling to get out.’
She stopped, and the two women moved their heads away from each other. Two things caught Jessie’s attention. At one end of the hall, Lionel Leadbetter’s chair scraped noisily as he stood to say grace. At the other, Andrew pushed open the door and stood just inside it, waiting until grace had been spoken before finding a place to sit.
When they raised their heads again, Caroline spotted her son. ‘Well, look who’s here. First harvest supper in years. Late of course. Over here, dear,’ she cried above the noise and movement as the first plates began to be handed round. ‘Move up closer to me, Jessie. Lionel’s gone to sit with the Pilkingtons, so Andrew can sit on your other side.’
‘Good evening, mother,’ said Andrew with mock deference as he took off his jacket and sat down next to Jessie. ‘And good evening to you too, Miss Whelan. Twice in one week, we’ll have to stop meeting like this.’
‘Good evening, Andrew,’ she responded. He was too close for her to turn and look at him. He reached for the bread and looked at Jessie as he did so. ‘Whatever you’ve done with your hair,’ he said quietly, ‘it looks grand.’
‘Why, thank you,’ she said, involuntarily running her hand over the soft waves that now framed her face. She was relieved that the flush she could feel on her neck would probably be hidden. Mercifully, Caroline engaged her attention and she could face away from Andrew for a while. Even so, she was aware of him. Only half listening to Caroline’s account of a WI meeting in Broughton, she told herself yet again that young men like Andrew didn’t notice women like herself. He was being polite, that was all. He was talking to a man on his other side now. Good.
Large platefuls of shepherd’s pie were consumed, and plates gradually cleared away. The vicar rose to his feet again. ‘And now everyone, my favourite part of the harvest supper. I’m told the desserts are all ready, so –’
Whatever he’d planned to say next was lost in the immediate noise as benches were pushed back from the tables and a general stampede began. The children were the most agile and reached the loaded tables first, closely followed by the young men, many of whom had been working in the fields only an hour or so before and had been looking forward to this for days, if not weeks. There was some boisterous jostling as lines formed and snaked around the hall. Jessie and Caroline stayed where they were. It was the same every year, and there was always plenty for everyone. They both knew that some of the cakes and pies were hidden away in the back room, waiting until there was space for them. Andrew had lined up, loaded his plate with cake and trifle and sat down again before his companions stirred. They smiled at his eagerness. ‘Just a boy,’ said his mother to Jessie.
When Jessie had finished a portion of exquisite pear tart and cream, she turned to Andrew, now well into his second helping. ‘Your mother’s being been telling more about what happened at the shipwreck. You didn’t tell me you saved that boy from drowning.’
Andrew shrugged, not looking up. ‘He was alright. These things happen.’
‘But what did happen?’ Jessie wanted the details.
‘Well,’ he said, putting down his spoon and turning towards her. ‘We were pulling people out of one of the ship’s boats that had overturned and this lad got water in his waders and got stuck in the waves. He’d put his jacket on over the top of the waders and I had to cut them off. Always carry a sharp knife, so it didn’t take a minute.’ He smiled, holding her for an instant with pale blue eyes.
An arm stretched between them to pick up empty plates. Jessie looked down at her hands, unsure what to do or say. Her uncertainty was masked as someone banged on the table at the other end of the room. It was Alan Lancaster, the blacksmith, calling for order.
‘Well, everyone,’ he roared, and the hubbub of voices tailed away under the onslaught. ‘I’m sure you’d all like me to thank the ladies for another grand supper.’
Cheers and banging on tables. Caroline and Jessie clapped politely as women’s faces appeared at the kitchen door, and hands were wiped on aprons.
‘And now for some entertainment!’ Mr Lancaster’s voice boomed round the room. More cheers, and the sound of scraping wood as people began to move tables and chairs back towards the walls of the narrow hall.
‘I ’appen to know,’ the voice continued, ‘there’s someone ’ere tonight that’s got a story to tell us. A very sad story, I understand.’ Mr Lancaster lowered his voice for this pronouncement, while people nudged each other and looked around for the storyteller.
Caroline whispered in Jessie’s ear. ‘Thought this might happen. I’ll have to take Lionel away. You know how he gets when other people are performing. You stay though, dear – keep Andrew company. He could do with a night out that’s not in some pub or other.’ She squeezed Jessie’s arm, signalled to Lionel who was heading towards the kitchen door, and moved as quickly towards him as the rearrangement of furniture would allow.
Andrew came around the table to sit beside Jessie with his back to the wall.
‘Your father had to leave apparently,’ she said. ‘You go too, if you want. I probably won’t be long myself, although it’s hard to get away sometimes when things start to warm up.’
‘The old man can’t bear not being the centre of attention,’ said Andrew quietly. ‘Doesn’t really approve of storytelling. Sometimes it gets a bit close to the bone, you know. I’ll walk you home now if you want to go.’
‘Not far to walk,’ she said, smiling. ‘Must be all of ten yards to my front door. But I’ll stay a while. I love these stories and there might be some music, too. I think Vince Glaister has his fiddle with him, and it’s always a treat to hear him play.’
Andrew smiled. ‘Aye, he makes a grand noise on that fiddle. I’ll stay a while, if you are.’
The storyteller’s tale was long and ludicrous, and the crowd punctuated its various chapters with comments and contributions, and cheers when the long-drawn out conclusion was finally reached. Jessie laughed with the rest, aware of Andrew’s presence beside her without looking at him.
‘And now, we’ve got another treat,’ said Mr Lancaster. ‘Vince has got ’is fiddle.’
‘I ’ave that,’ said the fiddle player, taking the instrument out of its battered case. ‘And I know what I want to play, but I need some ’elp wi’ it. I were playing a tune t’other night and someone joined in singing. He’d ’ad one too many mebbe, but that lad can sing, and he’s ’ere tonight and this time he’s sober, so it’ll be even better.’
Some clapped, some cheered, others looked round the room to find the singer. Jessie noticed the faces turned in her direction.
‘Come on, Andy, lad,’ said Mr Lancaster. ‘We all know who Vince’s talking about. You must’ve learned some good songs when you were away, so give us one.’
By this time everyone had turned to look. Jessie lowered her head to hide her face.
‘Vince, you old bugger,’ Andrew called across to the fiddle player who stood beaming with the fiddle under his chin. ‘You got me again! Danny Boy, alright?’
He leaned down. ‘Wait here,’ he said to Jessie. ‘Won’t be long.’
Andrew pushed back his chair, touched her arm fleetingly as he got to his feet, and stepped over the bench to make his way across towards Vince, who was checking and tuning the fiddle. They stood side by side: Andrew was a foot taller than his older companion. Vince played the first few notes of the familiar tune and Andrew’s voice followed, soft and clear, filling the hushed space. Jessie listened too, surprised and moved. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, even when for a long moment he looked directly at her. Before the song was finished she felt a tear on her cheek and wiped it away.
After the final notes died there was a tense silence: then the hall erupted, boots stamping on the wooden floor and hands slapping the wooden tables. Andrew bowed ironically to the corners of the hall, resisted the calls for ‘more, more’, shook Vince’s hand and pushed back to his seat next to Jessie, his face shining. She turned to him.
‘Thank you,’ she said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘That was wonderful. I had no idea …’
‘Mam always says this village loves to sing,’ he said. ‘ Must’ve caught it meself, here and at school, even before I went up north. Men sing there when they’re drunk. Not that I was ever drunk, of course.’
‘Of course not,’ said Jessie. ‘The very idea.’
The evening was drawing to a close. ‘G’ neet everybody,’ cried Mr Lancaster, and people began to gather their things. Andrew was the star of the show for a while, as some thanked him, slapped him on the back. Jessie stood aside, waiting.
‘And now for the long walk to the schoolhouse,’ said Andrew, taking her arm. ‘Allow me to escort you, Miss Whelan.’
Jessie did let him escort her round the corner to her dark house. ‘Thank you again,’ she said, looking up at his head silhouetted against the sky and the stars. She held out her hand, and he took it, put it to his lips, then turned and walked away. Jessie watched his tall shape move down the lane before she went in to the house. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it.