by Ruth Sutton
‘Just a chat, my boy, won’t take long.’
‘Don’t “my boy” me here, not at work. Not anywhere. I’m a grown man.’
‘Of course, my apologies,’ said Lionel, bending to pick up the chair, which he pulled towards himself and sat down. ‘Just need to check with you about the new school. Won’t take a minute.’
‘Christ,’ said Andrew, ‘the bloody school again. What new school? There is no new school. It’s not going to happen.’
His father looked up at him from the fragile chair that had now disappeared under the folds of his coat.
‘No need to blaspheme,’ he said, quite mildly, as he felt the wave of Andrew’s frustration breaking over him. ‘I’m consulting with Sir John, and then with the bishop, to try and get the diocese to help. Caroline tells me that may be the best way. I need to check with you about costs before I go, that’s all.’
Andrew’s anger would not be soothed by his father’s unusual reasonableness.
‘Just look what we’re dealing with here,’ he said, sweeping his arm towards the mess on the desk behind him. ‘Up to our backsides in paper, no one in the office to help since that boy they sent us got ill and disappeared. I’m trying to run the place single-handed and you waste my time with this bloody pipe dream.’
‘How is the boy?’ Lionel leaned forward a little.
‘Forget the boy,’ Andrew was shouting again now, ‘and forget the bloody school! Tell the bishop if he wants a new school, he can build it himself. Now I need to work, so get out and let us get on with it. And take that machine with you out of our yard.’
Lionel stared at him for a minute and then got to his feet, head bent against the low ceiling and clearly taller than his son. The mild demeanour was draining away.
‘Now look,’ he said, still quiet, but with slow deliberation. ‘We’ve had this conversation before. You may be running this miserable place for the time being, but you don’t make the decisions around here. Skeffington says he wants the school, just like I do and most of the village. He owns this quarry, and all the stone that you fellows dig out of it. What he says, goes. He expects me to sort it out, but a word from me, and you’ll be dealing with him, not me. Think on that.’
‘Skeffington’s in business, like me, and not like you.’ Andrew came back at him in the same fierce tone. ‘He keeps you running around. Knows you’ve nothing better to do. If he thinks your schemes might interfere with the profit from this quarry, that’s the end of it. No school.’
‘But the village want it, Skeffington knows that.’
‘Ha! That’s a laugh. You don’t hear what they say in the Farriers. Most of the blokes in there couldn’t give a damn about a new school, and sure as hell won’t lift a finger or pay a penny to make it happen.’
‘Miss Whelan says –’ said Lionel, changing tack.
‘Miss Whelan knows who pays her wages. She’s going along with it to keep you happy, to keep her job. She’s told me herself.’
‘Oh, so you two are plotting behind my back now, are you?’
‘What Jessie and I say to each other is between us, and don’t drag her into it.’
‘Jessie, is it? Where’s the respect, young man. She’s old enough to be your mother. It’s “Miss Whelan” to you.’
‘If you –’ Andrew began and stopped, turning away. ‘Look, just leave us alone. Tell the bishop anything you like. You’re not getting the stone for the school from here unless you pay for it, a real price. And you’re not getting my time, either. If that’s the end of the new bloody school, so be it.’
‘We’ll see about this,’ said Lionel, putting his hat back on and heading for the door, bending to get through the small space. But then he turned back and stood upright again. He peered into the dark of the room, made darker by his body blocking the light.
‘You can rant and rave all you like. You’re an employee here, that’s all. You’ll do as you’re told, and you’ll treat me and others with more respect in future. Good day to you.’
He disappeared through the door. Moments later the engine of the Armstrong Siddeley roared into luxuriant life. Andrew picked up a stray lump of slate from the table and hurled it at the door. It skittered across the yard outside. Ted, who was heading towards the office, turned quickly away and ducked into the outhouse before his boss could see him.
Andrew left the quarry early that evening and headed for the Farriers. It was Friday, the end of a bad week. He rode the bike faster than the narrow lanes would tolerate and narrowly missed a cat as he swept down the hill into Newton, past the schoolhouse. It was quiet in the pub as Elsie Eilbeck pulled his pint, which he downed in two long gulps, and then another.
‘Bad day?’ she asked, hoping for something interesting in response. It had been a quiet week and she wanted something to cheer her up.
‘Bad enough,’ was all she got. Andrew put his empty tankard down noisily on the bar.
A couple of other drinkers had come in, and the talk shifted to rugby. They talked across him and Andrew took his drink to the shelf in the corner and stood leaning against it. ‘Bloody man,’ he said to himself. Elsie noticed, but said nothing. Andrew stood and drank steadily. The frustration and humiliation of the day seethed. Other drinkers felt his mood and avoided him. Even Elsie knew to leave well alone: it was a mistake to cross young Leadbetter in drink.
When Andrew walked unsteadily out into the pub yard well after ten, the cold air hit him hard. He looked at the bike, at the stars over his head, at the cloud of his breath in the frigid air. Down the road, just in his sight, was the schoolhouse. Downstairs was in darkness, but upstairs he could see that the spare room curtains were drawn. He knew what that meant. At Jessie’s window he could see a faint glow. He pictured the warmth of the fire in the soft room, the bed, her body. Despite the drink, maybe because of it, he felt the familiar stirring.
Determined, he walked along to the house, steadying himself on the wall. Round the back. The door was unlocked. He went in, closed the door silently behind him and took off his boots. Careful. No noise. He wanted her drowsy, unresisting. He wanted her now.
Chapter 24
Jessie was sitting up in bed reading, a dark blue dressing gown round her shoulders. It was Friday evening, a little after ten, the end of another busy week. She had gone up early to read. The fire was warm in the grate. The crackle of burning coal and the soft tick of the clock on the landing were the only sounds.
She heard something. Footsteps on the stairs. The bedroom door creaked.
‘Andrew?’
‘Expecting someone else?’
‘It’s late.’
‘Been in the Farriers.’
‘I can smell it.’ Fumes of beer and tobacco filled the space between them. She put down the book on the covers beside her and looked at him.
‘I think you should go home,’ Her voice was quiet. She watched him.
‘Curtains were drawn. That means come on in. Can’t go home. Can’t see straight.’
‘Straight enough to get down here, though. Did anyone see you?’
‘No idea! Christ! I’m sick of this. Ashamed of me or summat?’
Andrew stood just inside the door. Jessie sat still, covers pulled round her. Neither of them moved. The small fire hissed.
‘It’s late,’ she said. ‘I did want to talk to you, but you’re in no fit state. I can make you a drink, but you need to go home.’
‘Look,’ he said, lowering his head. ‘No one saw me, alright? Your precious reputation is safe. I’m tired and I’m pissed.’
Jessie pushed back the covers off her bed, put her feet to the floor, stood and pulled the gown around her. The light from the fire and the oil lamp beside the bed glowed on her hair and the side of her face. Andrew leaned against the wall.
‘I said I’ll make you a drink,’ she said quietly. ‘That means going downstairs. So you sit down, out of the way, and I’ll bring it up. Or come down with me and put your feet up on the sofa for a few minutes.’
> ‘I’m not going anywhere, staying right here. And you’re staying here with me. Forget the drink. Had enough drink.’
Jessie walked towards him. He did not move. She reached to push him gently away from the door. He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards him.
‘Stop it, Andrew!’ She twisted away from him. ‘You’re drunk and you’re hurting me. Get off me.’
‘Get off me,’ he mimicked her voice. ‘That’s not what you said last time.’ He fumbled at the tie of the gown at her waist, pressing his other hand against her breast.
She pulled back away from him and the tie tore. Her gown fell open and she struggled to hold it. He stepped towards her again, reaching for her. ‘Come ’ere, woman.’
‘You’re drunk,’ she said again.
‘Not too drunk to give you one. You know you want it.’
Jessie stepped back. He reached for her, losing his balance. She braced herself against the foot of the bed behind her, and waited a moment. Her mind was racing.
‘For goodness sake,’ she said, ‘sit down, before you fall down.’
She slipped past him towards the stairs, holding the gown around her. He caught the hint of lemon in her hair. He reached out for her, but she was gone. He slumped into the little chair beside the fire and closed his eyes.
Downstairs, Jessie waited for the kettle and mixed some coffee in a mug. Her heart thumped: her mind was working quickly.
‘Never seen him quite so drunk before,’ she said to herself. ‘More boyish than ever. Ridiculous, talking like a gangster in a movie. Should be angry with him, but … he’ll settle down. Probably something to do with Lionel, usually is when he’s like this. Must have been bad, whatever it was. Never spoken to me like this before.’
‘Come on, Jess,’ she spoke out loud, sharply. ‘He’s drunk. He has to go. That’s all.’
She pushed open the bedroom door and he stirred in the chair. She put down the mug and pulled the gown around her once again, standing out of reach.
‘Here’s what you need. Drink it, you’ll be right to drive home. Come on. You can’t stay here.’
‘Sound like me bloody mother,’ he said without opening his eyes. ‘Drink it up,’ he mimicked her again, ‘there’s a good boy.’
‘Well, I’m almost old enough,’ she said lightly.
He pushed himself up in the chair. ‘That’s what he said. “She’s old enough to be your mother.” Said I should respect you. I nearly told him, right then, told him how you spread yourself for me, the noise you make when I fuck you.’
The words hit like a punch. She waited a moment, pulling herself together.
‘What did you say to him?’
‘Nothing. I said nothing.’
Jessie looked at her lover. ‘Is that what you think of me?’
‘I fuck you. You make a noise. What’s wrong with that?’
‘You’d better go. Now.’
‘Upset? Just ‘cos I said “fuck”? That’s what we do. You love it, I know you do. I can feel it. You want it as much as I do.’
‘Get out!’
‘Plenty other women out there. They all want it. Young girls, flaunting themselves. I know what they want, and they get it, too. Even that bitch, Agnes.’
‘Andrew, that’s enough.’ Jessie tried her schoolteacher voice, struggling to keep calm. He must not see that she was afraid of him.
‘Yes teacher, no teacher,’ he mocked her. ‘All right, all right, I’m going. Just one kiss and I’ll go. Come on, Jess. That’s all. I’ll be good, teacher, promise.’
She hesitated. He smiled at her, picked up the coffee and drank some of it, wincing as it burned his mouth. Anger flared again and he threw the mug down onto the floor at his feet. The coffee arched towards the fire, splashing in heavy drops onto the carpet.
‘I’ll get a cloth,’ she said quietly, turning towards the door.
‘Leave it!’ He shouted, lurching towards her. ‘Let it lie. Didn’t come for a drink, I came for you.’ He caught her arm as she turned, pulled her towards him, seized her other shoulder and pushed her back towards the bed. She fell back, pulling him to his knees.
‘Fuck it, Jess,’ he said ‘Give over, just lie still. I won’t hurt you.’
But he did hurt her. Pushing up from his knees, he heaved her body up onto the bed and held one arm across her neck while he struggled with his belt. She tried to cry out but his arm was choking her. Her mouth was open but she made no sound. He pushed her legs apart with his knee and forced himself into her. The pain was sharp and shocking. She struggled but his full weight was on her now. He pushed harder, forcing a hand under her hips to hold her under him. He finished quickly, and loud, then lay panting. The weight on her chest made it hard to breath. She stretched her back to find some air, gasping, trying to move her legs, to force him away.
As his body relaxed she pushed hard against his shoulders, straining to release her hips. He slid out of her and she pushed again, with her body as well as her arms, breathing hard to fill her lungs.
‘Get off, get off!’
He slipped to the floor, and leaned back on his haunches. Jessie scrambled down the bed away from him. On the other side of the room, she stood, pulling the gown down around herself, pushing the hair off her face. Tears were in her eyes, but she wiped them away.
‘Get out of my house. You hurt me. Get out!’ She shouted at him, reaching for breath between the words.
Andrew got up slowly, pulled up his trousers and rubbed his face with his hand.
‘Away with the fuss, for God’s sake, you’ll wake the whole village. That’s all I wanted. Where’s the harm, just a bit of sex, that’s all.’
She said nothing, both arms stretched in front of her, warding him off.
‘I’m going, don’t fret. Sorry about the coffee.’
He walked unsteadily across the room, out and down the stairs. Jessie heard the back door close behind him and sank to her knees.
Chapter 25
For a long time after Andrew left the house Jessie knelt on the floor, leaning against the bed. The fire died slowly in the grate beside her and the room grew cold. She did not sleep, but closed her eyes, trying to blot out what had happened. It was the cold that roused her at last. She pulled herself up and went slowly, painfully, down the stairs. The water in the kettle on the range was still warm, and she poured some into a bowl, took a cloth from the sink, soaked it in the water and then pressed it first to her face and then, with more difficulty, between her legs.
She needed a drink. There was a bottle of whisky somewhere but she couldn’t remember where and had no strength to look for it. She put the kettle back on the range to heat and sat on a chair to wait. Her legs felt weak. Her mind swarmed. Minutes passed, marked only by the insistent ticking of the clock in the hall. As she poured boiling water into the teapot some of it dribbled unseen onto the floor. She needed to go back to her bed, to reclaim it, and forced herself to climb the stairs. She sat on the edge of the bed. The book that she’d put down an hour before slid to the floor. Then the tears came, sliding unhindered down her face until she wiped her eyes with a corner of the sheet.
Disgust. She felt it now, not about Andrew, but about herself. She had deceived herself, pretended that he loved her. She wanted to be desired after all the years of loneliness. For a little while she had felt like a woman, doing the things that women do, thinking about a man, waiting for him to come, loving his hands on her, feeling filled up by him, complete. But it was a sham. Whatever he felt for her, it wasn’t love, couldn’t be. He wanted to own her, to show her off to his wretched father. He had taken her tonight because he could, because he wanted to, because she couldn’t stop him.
She put down the cup and lay on her side, her legs pulled up like a baby in the womb. Alone. There was no one she could turn to. Not for help, she didn’t need help. Just for comfort. He’d come inside her: she knew that and what it could mean. Last time, all those years ago, she’d told herself it would be all right. Just one ti
me, she couldn’t get pregnant from just one time. But she’d been wrong then. She was older now, less fertile, but it could still happen. What to do? She didn’t know. A wave broke over her. All she’d worked for, all these years, all at risk because the man was drunk and she didn’t have the sense or the strength to throw him out. She could have ended it earlier, so why hadn’t she? Flattered. That was the problem all along. After all the years of feeling invisible, a man had noticed her, a young man, strong and passionate.
Jessie covered her eyes again. Regret. Shame. Humiliation. She had to face a truth about herself. If Andrew had been a respectful, respectable young man she wouldn’t have wanted him. She wanted him because it was exciting. The secrecy of their affair gave her a thrill she hadn’t felt since she’d lied to her mother all those years before, since she and Clive had made love in that empty house while the storm crashed around them. The impulse had been hers as well as his, then and now, except that tonight it was drink that had fuelled Andrew, not love for her. Sex. That’s what he wanted tonight, and he thought she wanted it, too.
If there was damage, it was already done. It wouldn’t happen again. She’d already decided to end it when she’d drawn the curtains three days before to signal she wanted to see him, but he couldn’t have known that. He probably thought … She stopped herself, but the idea persisted. He thought that the drawn curtains meant sex, as it had done before. That’s the message she had given him. And he’d been drinking. Anything could have set him off. She knew he was a drinker. What was she thinking of, letting him into her life, into her body?
She lay still a while, feeling her stomach. It might be weeks before she could be sure. If the worst happened she would deal with it then. Nothing to do now, not about that. About Andrew? She would do what she’d planned. No use making a drama out of what happened tonight. He was drunk, he’d forced himself on her. He was wrong, but she knew he wouldn’t understand. He’d probably done it before, in drink, with someone who he thought was wanting it, even though she struggled and said ‘No.’ She shut her eyes against the thought. What did that make her? A slut? A fool?