Union Belle

by Deborah Challinor

  A small noise made her look up, and to her horror she saw that Tom was working hard to control the trembling muscles in his face and his tensed jaw. A tear trickled down one unshaven cheek and he swiped it angrily away with the palm of his hand.

  Automatically, she reached out to touch him.

  ‘Get off me!’ he snarled, and whacked her hand away.

  She jerked back, shocked.

  He shoved his chair back from the table and stood up. ‘I’m going out.’

  She wanted to ask when he would be back, or even if he would be back, but couldn’t seem to get the words out. It was only half past nine on a Saturday morning, and she wondered numbly where he would go at this hour.

  As he jammed his feet into his boots and clumped down the steps, she heard someone coming up the other way.

  Tom uttered a curt, ‘Gloria,’ then she heard her mother reply, ‘Good morning, Thomas.’

  Then she was in the kitchen, standing with her hands on her hips and her face flushed with anger. ‘Well, you’ve done it now, young lady, haven’t you?’

  Ellen looked away, her heart plummeting.

  ‘Nora Bone just accosted me in the street. Nora bloody Bone, of all the nosy bloody parkers in this godforsaken little town!’ Gloria said. ‘You might at least have had the decency to tell me what was going on.’

  ‘I was going to, Mum, as soon as…’ Ellen trailed off. ‘I don’t know how Mrs Bone found out.’

  Gloria dumped her handbag on the table and sat down. ‘Everyone’s found out, according to Nora. You knew this would happen, Ellen, I warned you. I’m surprised Tom is still here, I really am. I’m surprised you’re still here. Plenty of husbands would have thrown you out in the street by now, and chucked your bags out after you!’

  Ellen didn’t know what to say, because Gloria was right.

  Her mother took her hat off. ‘Are Neil and Davey all right? Where are they?’

  ‘At Milly’s, they stayed the night. I’m taking their gear along soon, they’re playing today.’

  ‘I know they are, Ellen, that’s why I came out—to see my grandsons play football, not to be told by a nosy old bitch what a terrible tragedy it is that my daughter has felt the need to lead her poor, blameless husband up the garden path and therefore ruin a perfectly good marriage.’

  Ellen could almost hear Nora Bone saying all that, and felt her face burn at just the thought of it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum, I was going to tell you.’

  ‘Well, it’s too late now, isn’t it? So come on, get dressed, you’re not going out looking like that,’ Gloria said, waving her hand distastefully at Ellen’s mud-stained trousers and old gardening jumper.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said get dressed, go and put something presentable on.’

  ‘I’m only going down to Milly’s.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You and I are going to watch the boys play football.’

  Ellen was horrified. ‘Mum, I can’t!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Everyone will be…talking.’

  ‘So? Your father made a fool of himself on many an occasion, and he wasn’t afraid to show his face in public. My God, if he had been, he’d never have set foot outside the door! Go on, go and get changed.’

  Gloria waited while Ellen reluctantly went to her bedroom to put on something more presentable. She was convinced that if she let her daughter hide away while all this was going on she’d lose her nerve, and that would put an end to any chance she might have of ever holding her head up in Pukemiro again. Alf had told her the same thing when she’d come back to him all those years ago. After watching her mope around the house feeling sorry for herself, he’d sat her down and pointed out to her that people could only make her feel bad if she let them.

  Ellen reappeared wearing her good slacks, a jumper and her winter coat. They set out for Milly’s, Ellen carrying the boys’ football gear in a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. The school didn’t have a real strip, just old shorts and shirts, but her boys both had proper football boots, bought for them by Tom last Christmas, and she knew they’d be very put out if they had to run around the pitch in their bare feet.

  They were waiting for her at Milly’s back door, and she knew by their happy, bright faces that they had no idea of what was going on.

  ‘Have you had a good time?’ she asked, forcing herself to sound jolly.

  ‘Evan farted all night,’ Davey said, pulling a face.

  Evan said, ‘No, it was you.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t!’

  ‘That’s enough, boys,’ Gloria warned. ‘And don’t say that word, it’s vulgar.’

  ‘What, fart?’ Neil said.

  ‘Yes. You refer to it as “passing wind”, if you have to refer to it at all.’

  ‘Mum says “parp”,’ Billy said.

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Evan, ‘or “poot”.’

  ‘Georgie Takoko says “patero”,’ Neil said, making a great production of the Maori pronunciation.

  Milly bustled into the kitchen, also dressed for the cool weather. ‘Cut it out, you lot. Right, are we ready?’

  The boys galloped outside and took off up the street towards the school playing fields, where a crowd had already started to congregate. The bus had disgorged the Huntly Primary team and its supporters, who were also standing about, eyeing up the Pukemiro boys warily. There was a healthy rivalry among school sports teams in the district, and soccer was one of the most fiercely contested games.

  Davey came running back for his boots. ‘Where’s Dad?’ he asked, as he sat down on the damp ground and tugged them on.

  ‘Socks as well,’ Ellen said automatically. She passed him a pair from the duffel bag while she thought about how she was going to explain Tom’s absence.

  But then Davey yelled, ‘There he is!’ and pointed across to the other side of the playing field. He jumped up and raced off.

  Ellen looked over and saw Tom standing under a tree with Vic Anscombe and Bert Sisley, all of them smoking and stamping their feet against the cold. He must have ducked back home because he was wearing his coat and hat now. Bert waved, but Tom seemed to make a deliberate point of not acknowledging her at all.

  After the game, which the Pukemiro boys won, Tom went into town with Vic and a few of the other jokers and spent the afternoon in the pub. He was reasonably pissed by closing time, and bought himself a dozen DB to ward off any likelihood of sobering up. On the train on the way home, Vic asked him if he was going to the dance that night at the miners’ hall.

  Tom had forgotten all about it.

  He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Yeah, probably, but it’ll be by myself.’ The idea that he and Ellen would go along like a happily married couple was laughable; the whole bloody town must know by now.

  ‘You going home first?’ Vic asked. The current state of play in the McCabe household must be pretty dire. He’d heard Red Canning’s accusations, Tom and Ellen hadn’t even stood together during the game this morning, and Tom had spent the afternoon alternating between sullen moping over his beer, and mouthing off angrily about anything and everything.

  Tom shrugged again, as if he neither knew nor cared.

  ‘Well, why don’t you come back to ours for your tea?’ Vic said.

  ‘I can’t see Lorna wanting a pissed bastard in her kitchen.’

  Vic laughed. ‘She’s used to it, don’t worry.’

  So Tom went back to Vic’s. If Ellen was wondering where he’d got to, that was her bad luck.

  He wasn’t a very charming dinner guest, but then Vic hadn’t expected he would be. Lorna rounded on him when Tom left the table to go out to the toilet.

  ‘For God’s sake, Vic, why did you have to bring him here?’

  She was angry at not being consulted about the extra mouth to feed, and at Tom for spilling beer all over the tablecloth and for swearing his head off at the table. Fortunately, she’d told the kids to go and eat their meals in the sitting room before he’d started in with it.

>   ‘Jesus, Lorna, look at the state of the poor bastard,’ Vic replied. ‘I couldn’t leave him to stagger up and down Joseph Street all night.’

  ‘Why couldn’t he go just home?’

  ‘You know as well as I do: they’re having a bit of trouble.’

  Lorna’s mouth compressed into a narrow, self-righteous line. ‘Well, it’s none of our business if they are.’

  Vic snorted. ‘You seemed to think it was when you were having a bloody good gossip with Rhea Wickham at the game this morning. And don’t bother denying it because I saw you. You want to learn to keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you.’

  Lorna went red. ‘Well, it’s disgusting, her and Jack Vaughan carrying on like that.’

  Vic’s hand flew to his mouth. ‘Don’t tell me he’s been getting a leg over Rhea as well. The dirty dog!’

  ‘Oh, stop it, you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I know exactly what you mean, and if you’re that concerned about the injustice of it, have a heart for poor Tom. He’s the one who’s been hoodwinked.’

  ‘You know, I’ve always had my doubts about Ellen McCabe,’ Lorna said.

  ‘That’s enough, Lorna,’ Vic said, suddenly angry. He pointed his knife at her. ‘You have not had doubts about Ellen McCabe. She’s been a good friend to you over the years and don’t you forget it. Whatever’s going on will get sorted out one way or another, and they don’t need you making high and mighty judgements about it, all right?’

  ‘I really don’t think…’ Lorna began.

  ‘No, you don’t think at all, do you? Now shut up, here he comes.’

  Tom had heard the raised voices from outside. ‘Is something wrong? Is it my swearing? Sorry, Lorna, I’ll fuck off if it is.’

  Vic shook his head. ‘No, mate, you’re all right, sit down before you fall down.’

  So Tom did, and knocked his beer over again.

  Lorna took her husband’s advice and kept her mouth closed. She stood up and began to clear the table around the pair of them.

  Tom had sobered up marginally by the time he got to the dance, mainly because Vic had taken his beer off him. There had been an uncomfortable moment when Vic thought his friend might take a swing at him for it, but in the end he’d just sat there and nodded resignedly.

  The hall was almost full when they arrived at a little past eight o’clock. Tom looked around to see if Ellen had had the cheek to come herself, but to his relief he couldn’t see her anywhere. He did, however, catch the furtive glances of people unable to stop themselves. They’d been giving him sympathetic—and curious—looks all morning at the game, too. It should have been gratifying to know he had their commiseration, but it was humiliating because it felt like pity, not sympathy.

  He felt Vic’s hand on his elbow, steering him firmly towards a table where Pat and Rhea, Frank and Milly, and Lew and Andrea Trask were already sitting. Rhea, done up to the nines as usual, gave him a long, cool look as he sat down.

  ‘Is Ellen not with you tonight?’ she asked.

  Tom regarded her steadily. He might be pissed, but he knew when someone was having a go at him.

  ‘Pinny pains,’ he said, and watched with satisfaction as she blushed furiously. That’ll teach you, he thought, as she heaved her backside around in her chair and presented her back to him.

  ‘That was a bit naughty,’ Milly said, trying not to laugh.

  Tom ignored the comment. ‘Who’s looking after the boys? Have they gone home?’

  Milly shook her head, making her curls bounce. ‘Gloria’s taken them, and Evan and Billy. They’re camping out in her lounge, apparently.’

  ‘Oh.’

  So what was Ellen doing? He very much wanted to know, but wasn’t going to ask Milly. He hoped she was sitting at home as miserable as he was, although she probably wouldn’t be drunk. But then a truly ghastly thought occurred to him: what if Jack had come home early, and was at this very moment sitting on the couch with her?

  He lurched to his feet, but in an instant Milly had grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back down.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said, reading his mind. ‘She’s at home, by herself. She said she wanted to think about things. And if I were you, Tom, I’d go home myself and have a go at sorting it out before it’s too late.’

  But Tom didn’t hear the deliberate emphasis Milly put on the last four words. ‘That’ll be the day,’ he said, ‘there’s nothing to sort out. If she wants a backdoor man she can have him.’

  Milly frowned. She was very worried because Jack Vaughan was obviously much more than just a backdoor man to Ellen, although Tom hadn’t seemed to realise that yet. And if he didn’t do something soon, he could lose her altogether.

  ‘You don’t mean that, Tom, I know you don’t. Look, you’re a bit worse for wear. Why don’t you go and sleep it off? Go back to ours if you don’t want to go home.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Tom said. He reached for a beer. ‘I think I’ll stay a while.’

  Milly suggested to Frank that the men should keep an eye on Tom, and although they did what they could he somehow managed to get even drunker, alternating rapidly between rowdy high spirits and bursts of anger and gloom.

  Then, very uncharacteristically, he decided he felt like dancing. He dragged Milly up first, and she managed two songs to humour him before she had to sit down again because her toes were so badly trampled. Next he asked Andrea Trask, who was delighted as she saw it as a blow against Ellen McCabe, who was obviously the reason Jack had dumped her. But even she sat down fairly quickly: Tom was a big, heavy man. Then he approached Rhea Wickham, who made a great show of ignoring him, which only made him laugh his head off.

  It was then that Vic suggested seriously that Tom go home, or anywhere really, for a bit of a kip before he got himself into real trouble. He seemed to be having a high old time, but there was something very nasty brewing behind his eyes, and Vic could see it.

  But Tom refused, declaring at the top of his voice that if it was good enough for Jack Vaughan to whizz the ladies around the dance floor like Fred fucking Astaire, then why shouldn’t he?

  ‘Because Fred Astaire isn’t built like a brick shithouse, he can actually dance and he isn’t usually full of DB when he does,’ Vic replied. ‘Now go on, Tom, go and get your head down.’

  But instead Tom asked Meg Thomasson if she would care to cut a rug. Giggling, she agreed and off they went, banging indiscriminately into couples as they swept through the crowd.

  As Tom looked down at her big, brown eyes and wide smile, he realised that Meg really was quite pretty. He’d never really noticed that before. She was also rather drunk, but he decided that that was neither here nor there. She felt nice, too, and he appreciated the way that her breasts—much bigger than Ellen’s—were pressing against his chest. In fact, all of her was bigger than Ellen, although she stood no taller and came up to about the same place at his shoulder. Her body, warm and soft, was sort of melting into his and although he wasn’t a very good dancer, a social impediment of which he was usually very conscious, they seemed to be doing pretty well together tonight. Perhaps it’s who you dance with, not how good you are. But then that reminded him of Ellen dancing with Jack, the pair of them whirling elegantly around the floor as though they were made to be together, and his mood plummeted.

  He stopped suddenly, and Meg almost went over backwards.

  ‘Christ!’ she said as she teetered, then found her balance again. The silk flower in her bright, blonde hair had almost fallen out, and she raised both hands to adjust the hair pins securing it. ‘A bit of warning wouldn’t be a bad thing.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Tom said.

  But she didn’t stay put out for long. ‘Where’s your wife tonight?’ she asked, smiling up at him with an expression that Tom couldn’t fathom. She must have heard, surely?

  ‘Ellen?’

  ‘Yes, unless you’ve got more than one wife.’

  ‘No, I’ve just got the one.’

  ‘Is
that “just” as in only one wife, or “just” as in you’re only just hanging onto her?’ Meg said.

  Tom shook his head to clear it; she couldn’t be that drunk, she was talking rings around him. Or perhaps it was him who was really drunk.

  He nodded his head at the couples going past. ‘Do you want to keep going?’

  ‘Why not?’ she said.

  And they started off again, unsteadily at first, but were soon spinning around and around until Tom began to feel quite giddy, and then sick. Near the door he called another halt and dabbed at his sweaty brow with his sleeve. ‘I think I need some fresh air.’

  ‘Want some company?’ Meg asked, slipping her arm through his.

  Tom thought about it for a moment. He knew he was drunk, but not drunk enough to claim insensibility as a defence against what he suspected was going to happen next. And that was good, because then it couldn’t be classed as an accident, one of those things that just happened when a bloke had a few too many beers and got carried away. Not that he’d ever been carried away like that himself, not since he’d been married, and certainly not like Ellen and Jack Vaughan, not by a long shot. But perhaps it was time he did.

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ he said, ‘that’d be nice.’

  Outside it had been raining, and heavy mist shrouded the hills surrounding the town. Clouds drifted across the night sky, letting the moon show through and turn the raindrops on the grass and in the trees into dull diamonds.

  Tom felt a lot better in the fresh air, the nausea that had swamped him inside receding. He got out his tobacco and rolled a smoke.

  ‘Want one?’ he asked Meg.

  She nodded.

  They stood on the steps for several minutes, smoking in silence as people ducked past them in and out of the hall.

  Tom was starting to feel a flutter of nervousness in his belly at the thought of having sex with a woman who wasn’t Ellen, as well as an unpleasant sense of unease and wrongness, which he bludgeoned away with deliberate images of Ellen and Jack, together. He held out his hand to Meg.

  ‘Coming?’ he asked.

  ‘Where?’