by Ruth Sutton
‘Knew what?’
‘That you want me, too. I want you, badly.’
‘Stop, stop!’ She needed time to think. She had squeezed his shoulder, because she felt sorry for him, wanted to reassure him – or was he right? He was so much younger. She looked down. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Don’t say anything. Just let me hold you.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
She said nothing.
Andrew was relentless. ‘What’s wrong with us being together? We’re both single, we like each other. It’s a small village and people talk, but we know how to be careful.’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to give me time to think. I can’t..’
He stretched out his hands to her, to take her shoulders and pull her to him, but she stepped away from him again.
He sighed.
‘Alright,’ he said. ‘You know how I feel. Take your time. I could make you happy Jessie, I know it.’
‘But I’m too old …’
‘No,’ he raised his voice a little. ‘You’re not too old. I’ve known the young ones, they’re silly and shallow and I don’t want them. I want a real woman, Jess, like you. Warm and clever and funny like you. I can wait, for a while. But don’t make me wait too long. I can’t stand it. Drives me crazy every time I see you.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Well, now you do. When shall I come back? How long do you want, to think?’
Jessie’s mind raced. ‘A week,’ she said. ‘Give me a week. I’ll send you a note or something. Don’t just come round.’
‘Alright,’ he said, stepping back in to the kitchen. ‘ I’ll wait. You contact me. You know where?’
‘Yes, I know. Your mother –’ she stopped, remembering that this man’s mother was her friend. ‘Caroline told me.’
‘Be kind to me, Jess,’ he said, stretching his hand to stroke her face. ‘I know how I feel.’
She walked towards the back door and hesitated before opening it.
‘No one saw me,’ he anticipated her question. ‘It’s sluicing down. No one’s about.’
She opened the door and looked down the empty lane. The night was black and wet.
He passed her, stood on the doorstep, turned up the collar of his coat, took his cap out of his pocket and pulled it well down on his head.
‘I’ll wait,’ he said again, and was gone, through the rain.
Jessie shut the door and leaned against it, her hands behind her. She could hear the rain and the thud of her heart. He was right. She did want him, with an urgency that she’d thought was dead and done. What to do? It was dangerous, too dangerous, surely. The gossip, her job, Caroline. Her mind raced on. Maybe it was time to leave Newton. Maybe this was the chance she needed, to start again, with someone who loved her. But did he love her? How could he, but he said he did. But no, he didn’t say that. He said he wanted her, that was different. But so exciting. To be wanted, in that way, by a beautiful young man, strong, passionate. She hung her head. What to do? Nothing. Do nothing for a day or two, put it out of mind and see what happens. No decision. Not yet.
A few days passed. Jessie made her decision. She wrote a few words on a piece of paper, sealed it into an envelope and sent it to him at the quarry.
‘Come on Friday, late,’ she had written. ‘On foot. Make sure no one sees you.’
The days passed so slowly.
On Friday, after dark, Jessie left the back door of the schoolhouse open. When Andrew arrived, she did not hesitate. The chase was over. She gave herself to him with an abandon that surprised them both.
Chapter 12
A few days of staying in Andrew’s cold house at the quarry were enough for John. The rough blanket on his bed smelled of damp, and when he tried to air it round the fire downstairs it smelled of smoke. All Andrew wanted to talk about was the chaos in the office, and how he expected John to sort it out. John spent a few hours each day that week in the office, making a start on the paperwork, but dealing with Andrew’s bad temper there as well as in the house made him all the more certain that he needed a different place to stay, and soon.
On Saturday morning, he set off early to look for somewhere else to stay. One of the men at the quarry had suggested Hill House, further up the valley, and he headed in that direction as soon as the early morning rain had cleared. Hill House was one of the tallest houses for miles around: John could see the roofline for quite a way before he came close to it. The three-storey house faced south, a tall, symmetrical building with a Georgian look about it. John approached the front door, but then decided to go round the back where his muddy boots might be more acceptable. The back door stood slightly open, and he knocked on it, peeping into the big kitchen beyond. No one was there, but the door at the far end was open and he could hear the sound of voices faintly elsewhere in the house. He knocked again. ‘Wait a minute,’ called someone, and in a moment the far door opened further, and a young woman came through into the kitchen. She wore an apron, and the drab clothes beneath it were outshone by the mass of red hair piled ineffectually on her head.
‘Well?’ she said, and John took a step back as she pulled the door open. He was on the bottom step, but his eyes were still level with hers. He knew what he wanted to say, but the words dried in his mouth. ‘I, er,’ he managed, but then stopped again, furious with himself. Why did this always happen? Just for once, he longed to speak like a normal person, easily, with the words forming in his head and then coming out of his mouth. The young woman folded her arms across her chest and waited. He tried again. ‘I’m looking for a room,’ he said, too quickly, but at least he managed to finish the sentence.
‘What kind of a room?’ she asked, unhelpfully.
‘For … myself. To live in.’
‘Oh, aye,’ she said, waiting for him to say more.
John steeled himself, checking the words he wanted. ‘I work at the quarry, er, accounts, and I’ve just started …’ He ran out of words, although the planned sentence was not complete.
‘Oh, you want a room,’
‘Yes,’ he said, as she turned away from the door.
‘Mam,’ she called, in a remarkably loud voice. ‘There’s a man ’ere looking for a room.’ Half closing the back door, and leaving John on the doorstep, she disappeared.
John didn’t know what to do. Should he go in? If he did, should he take off his boots? As he struggled with the choice, the door opened again, to reveal another woman, older and shorter, looking up at him this time. John was determined to give a better impression. He held out his hand.
‘Good afternoon. My name’s John Pharaoh. I’ve just started work at the quarry – in the accounts office,’ he added, aware of the status and respectability that this information might induce.
‘I’m gae glad for you, Mr Pharaoh,’ said the woman without smiling, ‘but we dinnut ’ave any rooms. We’ve family living with us, and the two spare rooms we ’ad are both taken.’
John’s disappointment must have been obvious in his face.
‘It’s lang way from t’quarry,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t you find summat closer? Mrs Robinson in Newton has a room spare, or at least that’s the crack.’
‘I’d like to be at this end of the valley,’ said John, looking down at his feet. ‘I like to climb.’
‘Climb what?’
‘The rocks, you know,’ said John, waving vaguely towards the high fells behind him.
‘Oh, you’re a climber. I thought you said you worked at quarry.’
‘I do, but I climb in my spare time.’
‘Spare time,’ snorted the woman. ‘Dinnut get much o’ that.’
‘Is there anyone else in Boot who might have a room, do you think?’
‘Nay, lad,’ she started to say, and then hesitated. ‘What about Hannah?’
‘Who?’
‘Hannah Tyson, as was,’ said the woman. ‘Lives up at mill. She might have space. Only ’er and her man up there. I
t’s worth a try, now you’ve come up this way.’
From behind the open door John heard a loud laugh, quickly stifled.
‘Oh, Mam,’ said the unseen person, whom he guessed was the red-headed girl. ‘Tha’s wicked. Tell ’im to knock real loud before ’e goes in.’
At this the older woman herself laughed out loud, turning away from John and shutting the door as she did so.
Outside, staring at the door that was now just inches from his face, John heard the two women still shrieking with laughter and turned away angrily. Women. Was it him they were laughing at? What was so funny about this Hannah person? Why are women so difficult? Why can’t they just talk straight? He’d be better off with Andrew. At least Andrew didn’t laugh at him. He turned back towards the lane and leaned against the wall, trying to decide what to do. He’d worked it out, and this was where he wanted to be, near the fells. Andrew didn’t want him there, he was sure about that, and the house was so dismal, he couldn’t bear to stay there anyway. Every time he looked at those pale eyes he remembered the day in the storm.
Having his own place would be more expensive, but he wasn’t much bothered about that. He had a good job, and he had money in the bank from the sale of the Ulverston house. He could afford a place, if he could find one. Hill House would have been fine, but that was out, and anyway did he want to live with women who laughed at him? He remembered the young woman’s red hair and kicked a stone that scuttered down the path and bounced off the wall on the other side. He headed up the lane towards the bridge.
At the top of the bridge he looked up and saw the cottage door open and a woman step out carrying something draped over her arm. She hung it on a fence on top of the steep bank that dropped down to the stream below. He squinted into the low sun to see her face more clearly, and she squinted back. One eye was almost completely shut, and the other wide open. The lopsided face creased quickly into a smile.
‘Now then, young fella,’ said the woman. ‘What’s ta do?’
‘Are you Hannah?’ John asked. The woman was standing watching him, hands on her hips.
‘I am that, and who are you?’
‘John, John Pharaoh. I’m looking for a place to live, digs like, and I went to Hill House,’ John turned and pointed back down the lane, ‘and they said –’.
‘Oh I can imagine what they said,’ she laughed. ‘Summat aboot knocking, was it?’
‘Yes,’ said John. ‘How did you know?’
‘Lang story, lad. Are you coming in or shall us stand out ’ere? Better still, you can beat that rug for me if you like.’ Hannah pointed to the rug hanging over the fence.
John hesitated. Was she serious?
‘Away, lad,’ said Hannah. ‘Just my fun, tek no mind. Are you coming in then?’
John looked down at his muddy boots, then bent down to take them off before stepping into the house.
‘Aye, that’s grand. Just blacked range and mopped floor, and it’ll be mucky again fast enough without your mucky boots all over it too.’
John was relieved that at least he’d done that right.
‘Cup o’ tea?’ she said. ‘Our Fred’ll be back soon, and he’ll want tea, so we might as well.’
‘Thanks. It’s colder than it looks today. Wind’s come around I reckon, more east than south now.’
Hannah filled a large kettle from a tap by the door and placed it on the range.
‘It’ll be a while,’ she said. ‘Sit thi’sen down. How far have you come?’
‘Just from the quarry. I’ve been stopping there with Andy Leadbetter for a few days,’ John said, uncertain how much to tell her.
‘But you’re looking for a place?’ Hannah said. ‘What’s wrong with stopping doon there? They say Andy can be a bit, you know, moody like. Is that it?’
John was caught by this. ‘Nay,’ he said quickly. ‘Andy’s fine, it’s just that, like, I need somewhere more settled, more permanent. Got a job at the quarry, you see …’
‘A job, ’ave you?’ Hannah looked at him hard with her one good eye. ‘And what’s that, lad? You dinnat look like a quarryman.’
‘No, no,’ John said quickly, ‘Not in the quarry itself. In the office, the books, all that side of things.’
‘So, a clever bugger,’ said Hannah smiling. ‘Well, good for you, lad. Me and Fred never ’ad much schooling, but we’re pretty clever too, I reckon. Tha’ll stop for supper? Fred’ll want a chat, Don’t see many folk, and we like to ’ear all aboot ’em, where they’re from, all that, tha knows.’
Hannah got up to rinse out the big teapot. As she opened the back door, light seeped into the dark room and John noticed splashes of colour on the slate floor. The dark flagstones were covered in rugs, square and oblong, each with a different colour, and in bold designs. Greens and reds, golds and browns, circles and flowing lines as well as more geometric shapes.
‘These are grand,’ he said. ‘Did you make them?’
‘Oh, the rugs. Nay, that’s Fred. The Rug Man they used to call ’im, when ’e stopped at Broughton. Been making rugs for years, since he was a lad home from t’war. He’ll be home soon. You can ask ’im.’
‘It’s the colours,’ said John. ‘I’ve seen hookie rugs before, but not like this.’
‘Folk seem to like ’em,’ said Hannah. ‘They show ’im a picture, or tell ’im certain colours, and ’e meks one for them. Have to wait a while sometimes, but no one seems to mind.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said John. ‘They’re so beautiful.’
‘ ’Appen we all have a talent for summat,’ said Hannah as she filled the teapot and set it to mash on the range. ‘What’re you good at?’
John hesitated.
‘What am I good at? No one’s ever asked me that before.’
‘You must be good at numbers, like, to get a job like yours.’
‘I suppose so. I wouldn’t call that talent, though, that’s just a job.’
‘So what you do when you’re not working?’ asked Hannah, leaning against the range, her arms folded.
He hesitated, wondering again how much to tell this woman he’d only just met. ‘Well,’ he started, ‘I do climbing, you know rock climbing, not much good, but … and I love trains, too, so when I saw the job, you know, at the quarry …’ He waited for a reaction, but there was nothing. None of this seemed to be making sense
Hannah looked at him closely.
‘Not from round ’ere then?’
‘No, from Ulverston,’ he replied. ‘Only came up here last week. Got caught in the storm on my way up on the train.’
‘Aye, that storm was a bad ’un,’ she said. ‘Came whistling up this valley straight off the sea. We ’ad a few slates off, but I fixed ’em. That much rain came down the beck, flooded right over t’channel down t’big wheel. Thought for a while it would wash th’ whole thing out. It floods fast, that beck.’
Hannah picked up a large tin from the shelf and prised off the lid.
‘This is what I’m good at,’ she said, ‘though I says it meself. I can bake a reet grand cake. Want a bit?’
John didn’t bother answering as she cut a large slice of the dark brown cake and handed it over. ‘Table’s clean’ she said, ‘Scrubbed this morning.’
She walked over to look out of the front door, towards the bridge.
‘Tea’ll keep a minute,’ she said. I ’ope you like it strong. Think I can ’ear Fred coming.’
John stopped eating for a moment to listen. Sure enough he could hear a faint tapping.
‘That’s ’is stick,’ said Hannah. ‘Needs it on account of ’is one leg. Fred lost a leg in’t war in France. Came back without it.’
‘Oh,’ said John, as the tapping got steadily louder. ‘I’m sorry.’
She laughed. ‘Oh dinna fret,’ she said. ‘It were a long time ago. And anyway, that’s what brought us together, ’im and me. And we’re ’appy enough. Keeps neighbours amused, any road, the one-eyed woman and the one-legged man.’
‘Oh,’ sa
id John again, struggling to keep up with the information. ‘Is that why those women, at Hill House, were laughing?’
‘Laughing, were they?’ Hannah looked at John. ‘Well I’ll guess why that was. We ’ad a man come ’ere once, selling summat. And he came to t’door and found me and Fred, you know, on t’floor like. Well we ’adn’t been wed long, and ye know how it is.’
‘No,’ murmured John.
‘Well, there we were,’ said Hannah. ‘And ’e ran away to t’King Billy and told everyone all about it and they’ve been laughing ever since. So now you know. And ’ere’s the man ’imself,’ she said triumphantly as the tapping approached the door and stopped, ‘My Fred.’
John saw the outline of the man silhouetted against the light in the door frame, the right leg missing below the knee. The stick in the man’s hand moved forward confidently and the man hopped on the good leg onto the flags, stepping carefully over one of the rugs that John had admired. Hannah walked round, took his arm and kissed him on the mouth.
‘John, this ’ere’s Fred Porter, the man o’ the ’ouse.’
She helped the one-legged man onto a chair, and the stick was parked alongside while Fred’s eyes adjusted to the darkness and he spied John sitting on the other side of the table.
‘John who?’ said Fred, extending his hand to shake John’s.
‘Pharaoh,’ said John. ‘John Pharaoh.’
‘One of Whitehaven Pharaohs?’ asked Fred, unwinding a scarf from round his neck.
‘No, we came from Ulverston, or Barrow, that way, south,’ said John, pointing again in what he thought was the direction. ‘My dad, well, he came from Barrow, but we lived in Ulverston.’
Hannah brought Fred a mug of tea and another huge slab of cake.
‘Look at that,’ said Fred to John. ‘Naybody bakes a cake like my Hannah. Champion.’
His wife leaned over and kissed him again. John looked away.
Fred smiled. ‘Well, John Pharaoh,’ he said. ‘From Ulverston or Barrow or wherever it is, what’s tha doing in my ’ouse drinking tea with my missus?’
Hannah laughed. ‘Don’t tease th’ lad, Fred – ’e’s looking for a room. Went to Hill House, and they sent ’im ’ere.’