Forever Yours

by Rita Bradshaw

  It was another two hours before she heard her grandparents come upstairs, and she was still wide awake. Her grandma put her head round the door, saying softly, ‘Constance, lass?’ but when she pretended to be asleep the door was closed and she was alone.

  As was her custom, she’d cocooned herself under the blankets in the icy room so only her nose was exposed to the air, but after half an hour, when she’d judged her grandparents would be asleep, she crept out of bed, pulling her old faded dressing-gown over the flannelette nightdress her grandmother had made her. Without making a sound she went down the stairs to the kitchen, feeling her way in the blackness.

  The kitchen was lovely and warm. The fire in the range was banked down for the night with damp slack, but Constance knew her grandma would soon have it blazing again come morning. The fire was kept going day and night. The only time it was ever allowed to go out was before the chimney sweep called. Her grandma could sort out the cinders, take out the ash, clean and blacken the range and all without burning so much as the tip of a finger. The range fire, and the huge iron oven it heated, was the pivot of the home, and Constance had grown up thinking it was the best place in the world to be. Like her granda always said, a good fire kept body and soul together no matter what else was happening around you.

  Although she didn’t feel like that tonight.

  Constance plumped down in her granda’s armchair at the side of the range, tucking her feet under her. Looking into the muted glow of the fire, she soaked up the warmth as the tears ran unchecked down her face.

  After seeing Matt with Tilly today, she knew she had to face the fact that her grandma was right. Matt was going to ask for Tilly sooner or later – probably sooner, the way he’d kissed her. And she would be expected to be glad for the pair of them, to dance at their wedding and say what a bonny bride Tilly was. And in due course, when Tilly’s belly swelled with Matt’s bairn, she’d have to bill and coo over the baby when it was born. And that bairn would be the first of many; you only had to look at Tilly to see she’d have them like shelling peas, as her grandma said.

  Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she sniffed a few times. If only she could get away, leave Sacriston for good, or at least for a number of years, but her grandma would never countenance her going. In her class at school there had been eight of them who’d turned thirteen before Christmas. The five boys had gone straight down the pit, but Betsy Kirby and Rose McHaffie had gone into service at big houses miles away – Betsy as a kitchenmaid and Rose at a smaller establishment as the under-housemaid. There were no jobs in the village for girls; securing a position like Tilly had done in the post office was rare, and almost inevitably girls left their homes for a life in service, returning on their half-day or day off once a month if they were near enough to make the journey. When she had mentioned what Betsy and Rose were doing, her grandma had first told her she thought she’d got a job lined up for her helping out in the kitchen at the Robin Hood Inn in Durham Street. When that hadn’t materialised her grandma had gone to see her teacher, Miss Newton, and since Christmas she’d been helping with the little ones. She didn’t get paid for this, but her grandma insisted that if she was patient, a job of some kind would come up in the village eventually. But she didn’t think her grandma believed that, any more than she and her granda did.

  Constance liked helping in the infants’ class. She’d found she could manage even the naughtiest children like the Finnigan twins, but she couldn’t do it for ever. She didn’t want to do it for ever: it was only right she earned her own living.

  She recalled the superior little smile which had played round Tilly’s mouth at Christmas when the other girl had heard what she was doing, and, like then, she squirmed with humiliation. She was as bright as Tilly any day – brighter, in fact – but she didn’t want to make her grandma sad. And her grandma would be sad if she left Sacriston. She had understood that already, even before her granda had had a little word in her ear. Besides, what reason could she give for wanting to go? Not the true one; she’d rather die than admit to that.

  It was hopeless. Staring into the red glow underneath the mountain of damp coaldust she looked into a future stretching away in endless days and nights of misery. She wanted to shout and scream against it, to bang her fists on the floor and kick with her heels like the Finnigan twins did in one of their tantrums. And scratch Tilly Johnson’s eyes out.

  A little whisper came unbidden in the back of her mind. It reminded her how she’d prayed that day. She had promised God that if He spared Matt, if He allowed him to walk unscathed from the pit and feel sunlight and fresh air on his skin again, to see the blue sky and hear the birds sing, she would be content for the rest of her life, even if he loved Tilly and not her. And she had meant it, she had, but when he had kissed Tilly like that . . .

  A bargain is a bargain. The whisper came again, stronger. Constance wrinkled her face against it, even as she knew she was fighting a losing battle. All the dreams she’d had, everything good and exciting about the future had been tied up with Matt before Tilly had come along. She had never imagined a life without him at its centre. She had been stupid, so stupid – no wonder he still saw her as a silly little bairn. But she wasn’t a bairn. Not any more. Not after today, for sure.

  She sat up straighter, her spine stiffening and her mouth pulled tight. And it was only bairns who cried for the moon. She had to get on with things and not wear her heart on her sleeve, not in front of her grandma or anyone else. Today had shown her clearer than anything else what was going to happen, and she couldn’t do a thing about it. He would ask for Tilly and she would say yes. And in one way Constance hoped it would be soon, because this waiting for it to happen was unbearable.

  Chapter 4

  Constance was spared hearing the news of Matt and Tilly’s betrothal from the happy couple themselves. Having gone down with a bad cold the day after the pit accident she had the perfect excuse to stay home the following Saturday afternoon, but when her grandma returned from the Heaths’ in a state of high excitement, she knew immediately what had happened.

  Her granda had been snoozing in his chair in front of the fire and she’d been working away on the clippy mat she and her grandma were making, the box of bits of old clean rags at her elbow on the kitchen table. Once the mat was finished it would replace the one in front of the range and the old one would be taken upstairs to one of the bedrooms. This one had lovely coloured patterns in it and would brighten up the kitchen no end, but she wasn’t thinking of the clippy mat when she looked at her grandma.

  ‘Well, what do you think then?’ Mabel’s face was bright, and without pausing, she went on, ‘Matt’s asked young Tilly to marry him. Went to see her da and did it properly, by all accounts.’

  ‘And what did young Tilly say?’ her granda put in, his face deadpan after he’d given a sly wink at Constance.

  ‘She said yes, of course.’ Mabel’s voice carried a touch of indignation, for who wouldn’t say yes to Matt Heath? ‘And they’re after setting a date for the autumn. They’ve already been to see Father Duffy, they’d just got back when I got there this afternoon. Middle of September, they thought, and we’re invited.’ She beamed at them as though this had been a surprise.

  Perhaps because she had prepared herself for this moment over the last little while, Constance found she was able to smile back and say quite naturally, ‘I bet Aunty Ruth is pleased.’

  ‘Oh aye, they all are, although likely Ruth’ll be at a bit of a loss when Matt goes, him being the last one. I know I felt the same when your mam got wed.’

  The pain was killing her but no vestige of it showed in her face or voice when she said lightly, ‘And then I was dumped on you and you had to begin all over again.’

  In a rare show of affection her grandma reached out and touched her cheek. ‘Lass, you’ve bin a blessing from the day you were born and that’s the truth. Am I right, Art?’

  Her granda nodded, his eyes soft. ‘Never a truer word.’r />
  How could she ever leave them and go into service? The tiny hope she’d kept hidden in her heart as an antidote to this day flickered and died. She couldn’t. She owed them so much, and they weren’t getting any younger. Her granda was still fit and healthy now, but there would come a time when he couldn’t work and she would be the breadwinner. But doing what?

  As though her grandma had heard her thoughts, she sat down at the table next to her, her voice low as though someone might be listening when she said, ‘Your Aunty Ruth had a quiet word with me this afternoon, hinny. There’ll be a job going at the post office when Tilly’s wed and she’s asked Tilly to put in a good word for you with the postmaster. She gets on well with him, always has done, and he thinks a bit of her so there shouldn’t be a problem if she recommends you. What do you think of that then? Working in the post office, lass. Imagine.’

  The steel jaws of the trap finally snapped shut. Knowing she’d cry if she tried to speak, Tilly squeezed her grandma’s arm and attempted a smile.

  Her grandma must have been satisfied with the way she was overcome with wonder at the news. Patting her cheek once more, she rose briskly to her feet and after divesting herself of her coat and old felt hat which was going green with age, Mabel walked over to the range and put the black kettle on to the centre of the glowing fire. ‘We’ll have a nice cup of tea and some of that fruit loaf I made earlier to celebrate,’ she said happily, her smile beatific, although whether they were celebrating the news of the coming nuptials or the prospect of Constance’s job at the post office, her two listeners weren’t sure.

  It was only a few days later that the event occurred which changed the direction of Constance’s life for ever. She had been helping Miss Newton clear out a store cupboard in the seniors’ classroom once all the children had gone home, and Miss Newton had put something to her. She had, the teacher said, been thinking for some time that Constance could do very well for herself. She understood the circumstances in which Constance was placed – this was a tactful way of saying she knew there was no spare money at home – but had Constance considered becoming an uncertified teacher? It wasn’t the same as a qualified teacher, of course, but it was something, wasn’t it? And she would receive a salary, that was the thing. Miss Newton would do all she could to help her, she had emphasised, and she was sure Constance was up to the task. She had such a gift with the children and it would be a great pity if this wasn’t put to good use. It would take some time, of course, but it wasn’t essential Constance brought in a wage immediately, was it?

  No, Constance had assured the teacher, her eyes shining. It wasn’t. But what exactly was involved and how would she go about it? How old did she have to be and how long would it take?

  They had talked some more and by the time Constance left the school premises it was dark and snowing hard. Her mind full of the conversation she’d just had with Miss Newton, she didn’t notice the tall dark figure standing a few yards away at the corner of Church Street. Consequently when Vincent spoke she started violently and would have fallen but for his hand shooting out to steady her.

  ‘I – I didn’t s-see you,’ she stammered, taking a step backwards so his hand fell from her arm. She knew who he was, everyone in the village knew Mr McKenzie, the weighman, and every miner’s child grew up thinking of him as the devil incarnate, but she had never spoken to him until three days ago. He had been walking along Front Street when she had left school on Monday evening, and had shocked her by smiling at her and saying hello. She had muttered something in reply and scurried away covered in confusion, conscious of his eyes burning into her back. She had thought it a chance meeting and had put the matter out of her mind before she’d reached home, but then he had been there the next night and this time had struck up a conversation with her and she had found herself walking with him until she’d reached Cross Streets.

  He terrified her. She swallowed, her heart pounding. And it wasn’t just the stories she’d heard about him in the Heaths’ kitchen when Matt had vented his spleen about the ‘keeker’ as the men called him. Exactly what it was that frightened her she didn’t know, because he was very well-dressed and he wasn’t ugly, but there was something in his eyes . . .

  ‘You’re late leaving tonight,’ he said quietly, confirming her fear that he had been waiting for her. ‘Keeps you at it, does she, Miss Newton? Bit of a slave-driver?’

  ‘No. No, she’s not – not like that. She’s nice. She just—’ Constance stopped abruptly, suddenly aware that she’d been about to share her momentous news with Mr McKenzie, of all people.

  ‘Just what?’ His eyes narrowed as he stared into her face.

  She shrugged, and as she began walking she prayed desperately that he wouldn’t walk with her. He did.

  ‘Just what?’ he said again, but in a tone of voice she knew meant he was determined to get an answer.

  For the life of her Constance couldn’t think of anything to say but the truth. ‘Miss Newton thinks I could train to be an uncertified teacher.’ She kept her eyes on her boots as she walked. ‘It wouldn’t be for a while, of course.’

  ‘Uncertified teacher?’ The way he spoke, she could have said something immoral. ‘What’s she doing putting ideas like that in your head? You’re bonny, you don’t want to end up an old maid like Miss Newton. You’ll be after getting married and having a family before too long. Take no notice of her.’

  It wasn’t the response she’d expected. It didn’t occur to her to point out that she could follow the course Miss Newton had suggested and still get married. Instead she spoke out what was on her heart. ‘I shan’t ever get married,’ she said flatly.

  ‘A bonny lass like you? Don’t be silly.’

  She didn’t reply to this. She’d said too much as it was.

  After a moment, he said, ‘I knew your mother many years ago. She was beautiful too, just like you.’

  There was a funny little shake in his voice now and it unnerved her to the point that she felt like running away. And then she wished she had when she’d had the chance as he caught hold of her arm, forcing her to stop and face him through the whirling snow. ‘Have you got a lad, Constance?’ he asked softly.

  She blinked away a snowflake which had landed on her eyelashes. She didn’t like him touching her, and something of this was reflected in her voice when she said, ‘Of course not, I’m only thirteen years old. No one has a lad at thirteen.’

  ‘You look older than that. You look like your mother did when she was sixteen, seventeen even.’

  His eyes were covering her face and she wanted to pull herself free, to fight him if necessary, but she told herself she was being silly. He had only talked to her, after all. And she mustn’t forget he was the master weighman. He could make things impossible for her granda if she offended him. If even half the stories about him were true, it was enough for her to know his power was absolute. Looking down at her boots again, she muttered, ‘Well, I’m thirteen and my grandma wouldn’t hear of me having a lad for a long time, but I don’t want one anyway so it doesn’t matter.’

  He was silent for a moment, then his voice came slowly, almost thoughtfully, but with a harder note in it than he’d used thus far. ‘And is this decision anything to do with Matthew Heath getting betrothed to the Johnson wench at the weekend?’

  Taken aback, her eyes shot to his face. He couldn’t know, no one knew. So surprised was she, the truth was written all over her countenance.

  ‘I saw you with him that day at the pit gates.You’ve allowed him liberties, is that it? And he’s let you down?’

  ‘No.’ She was still so shocked by him guessing how she felt about Matt that her voice carried no weight.

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ His hands had tightened on her arms to the point he was really hurting her. ‘Damn it.’ His face had darkened; now he was growling the words at her. ‘Like mother, like daughter.’ He shook her and she had to clutch at him or lose her footing on the icy ground. ‘What did you let him do? Has he
taken you down? Tell me.’

  ‘Stop it!’ She was struggling violently, panic-stricken and afraid, and as she did so the shawl which covered her head and was tucked in the collar of her coat slipped about her shoulders. At the sight of her golden hair, soft tendrils of which curled on to her forehead and cheeks, he seemed to go mad.

  Pulling her against him, he crushed his mouth down on hers, her head going back so far she thought her neck would crack. Now Constance fought in earnest but her frenzied efforts had little impact on the hard male body. Although she was tall for her age, she was slender and finely boned. Vincent was a man in his prime and big and broad; the muscles he had developed in his years before becoming weighman had not yet turned to fat.

  The snowstorm had driven everyone inside and the street was deserted; there wasn’t even the odd child or two playing out. He had stopped her a hundred yards or so before the grid of streets wherein was home and safety, and now her terror increased as she felt him begin to manoeuvre her off the main street and into an alley which led to a piece of waste ground the colliery were due to develop for housing.

  His mouth had left hers, but now one large hand was clamped across her lower face, stifling her screams but also her air supply. She felt herself going faint and limp, and strangely, as she stopped struggling, this seemed to check his madness. He paused a few feet into the alley, removing his hand as he shook her slightly, saying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry – you’re all right, aren’t you? Look, I didn’t want it to be like this. I don’t want to hurt you. I want . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Just tell me, and I want the truth, mind: have you and Heath been carrying on?’