by Maggie Hope
‘Don’t knock,’ he said with heavy sarcasm.
Jonty ignored this. He strode over the the fireplace and glared down at his father, a heavy bloated man now with a large belly spilling over his trousers and the red mottled nose of the habitual drinker. He hadn’t even bothered to remove his riding boots.
‘What did you do to that girl? I met her at the end of the lane. She was in a distressed state and her clothing looked to be torn. She ran off up the road to Winton Colliery, but I saw enough to know something had happened to her. And then there you were, coming out of the wood. What were you doing there at that time of night?’
‘I was having a pee, what do you think?’ snapped Ralph, and took another gulp of whisky.
‘You wouldn’t have bothered to go into the wood, I know you better than that,’ Jonty said. ‘You molested that girl, didn’t you? Did you violate her? By God—’
Ralph flung his empty whisky glass into the fireplace and the glass shattered and flew out over the hearth and on to the carpet. He sat up in his chair, his face a deep purple.
‘No, I did not violate her, as you put it. And even if I did, what is it to you? She was only a pitman’s daughter, I found her trespassing in the fields. She should have been glad I didn’t haul her in front of the bench. I should have taken her to the lock-up …’
‘Then you did see her. Heavens’ alive, Father, don’t you know what will happen to you if you rape a girl from the pit villages? The miners look after their own, don’t you know that? You’ve lived among them long enough. If she tells what happened there’ll be a gang out after you tonight.’
Ralph laughed shortly. ‘Aw, stuff and nonsense,’ he said. ‘She won’t tell them. There was nothing to tell. The little bitch led me on to think she was willing and then took fright and ran off. No doubt she thought she heard someone coming. They’re all the same these pitmen’s brats – wanton little whores until they think they’ve been found out. There’ll be no gang after me, not tonight or any night.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t hurt her?’
‘Man, haven’t I told you? And anyway, even if I did, it’s none of your damn’ business. Though I suppose it’s the common blood coming out in you. Your mother was a wanton little whore—’
But Jonty was not prepared to listen to this. It was a long time since Ralph had talked like this about his mother, he’d been a bit more careful since Jonty had grown up, but tonight whisky had loosened his tongue and his voice had taken on the contemptuous tone which had burned itself into Jonty’s mind as a boy. He was not going to listen to his father calling his dead mother names again, he was not.
Leaning forward, he grabbed hold of his father’s shirt front and hauled him to his feet.
‘What the hell!’ ejaculated Ralph.
Jonty brought up his fist and hit his father full in the face, sending him sprawling on the carpet. Ralph lay for a moment, dazed, before lifting his head and shaking it carefully. A trickle of blood ran down his upper lip from his nose and he wiped the back of his hand across and inspected the blood which came away on his fingers, hardly believing what he saw.
‘What … what …?’ he said, looking up at Jonty who was towering over him, waiting for him to retaliate. Jonty’s blood was up. He felt that if only his father got to his feet and hit him back, he could carry on giving the older man a thrashing he would never forget.
‘Stand up,’ he said hoarsely, ‘stand up and fight.’
But Ralph was not so drunk as that, he still retained some instincts for self-preservation. He stayed where he was, looking up at his son.
‘I’m your father, boy!’ he snarled. ‘Don’t you think you owe me some respect?’
‘A pity you didn’t act like a father when I was young. Respect? You want me to show respect for a drunken wastrel like you? I had to hide out of your way when I was a boy, I feared for my life.’
Jonty laughed, but without humour as the rage in him died away, leaving only a grim, black contempt for the man still lying on the floor.
‘Oh, get to your feet,’ he said, ‘I’m not going to hit you again. The fact is, you’re just not worth it.’ He strode to the window and stared out into the blackness of the park, bitterness welling up in him, poisoning him. If it wasn’t for his grandmother, lying asleep in her room upstairs, he would go away from Grizedale Hall. He was sick of it and all it stood for. But the fact remained, his grandmother was there, old and frail. And he could not leave her to the mercies of her son, he could never do that.
Ralph had crawled to his feet and poured himself out a fresh glass of whisky. He stood before the fire and downed the spirit in one gulp before taking out his handkerchief and dabbing his upper lip.
‘You’ll pay for this,’ he said savagely, but Jonty merely grunted disparagingly and strode from the room.
Chapter Thirteen
Meg took off the all-enveloping apron which covered her Sunday dress of blue cotton. Going over to the mahogany-framed looking-glass which hung over the fireplace in the front room, she stared at her reflection. She ran her hands down her body, smoothing the thin cotton, wincing only slightly as they passed over her breasts, still a little sore from her encounter with Ralph Grizedale.
Shivering slightly at the memory, she tried to forget the way she hadn’t even fought him at first, not even protested when he unbuttoned her dress. Why had she been such a rabbit? She’d felt dirty when she’d come home that night. She’d drawn fresh water from the pump and washed herself all over in its icy coldness before letting down the chiffonier bed in the corner of the front room where she slept alone now that Alice was gone. Now that they were grown, the two boys had one of the bedrooms upstairs and Da the other. But at least Meg had the downstairs front room to herself.
Frowning, she gazed into the looking-glass. The colour in her cheeks was far too high and wisps of hair had fallen over her white forehead. Why couldn’t she have been born with a pale, interesting complexion and manageable hair? Nicely copper-tinted hair like Wesley’s, or dark hair like … like whose?
Impatiently she took the brush from the mantelpiece and brushed vigorously at her hair, succeeding only in making it stand up in a thick halo around her head. She pulled it into place and pinned it tightly on top of her head, though even then tendrils escaped and hung down by her ears.
There was nothing she could do about her cheeks, she decided, inspecting the offending colour critically. It was the heat from the oven and the exertions of getting the meal on the table in time for the boys, who wanted to go off somewhere with their marras. And Da too. He wanted to have his usual Sunday afternoon in bed.
Meg was nervous, apprehension rising in her throat. Which was daft. After all, it was just a Sunday afternoon’s walk, wasn’t it? They weren’t courting, Wesley and her, not courting or even walking out properly. Oh no, she wasn’t ready to go courting yet. She turned away from the looking-glass. She wasn’t satisfied with how she looked but short of putting powdered chalk on her cheeks there was nothing she could do. And beady-eyed Jack Boy was still in the kitchen, she daren’t get the chalk out.
In fact, the kitchen was deserted, Jack Boy and Miles had already gone and Da had disappeared upstairs. Meg went through to the back yard and called softly over the wall.
‘Bella!’
Auntie Phoebe and Uncle Tot were also having their Sunday afternoon lie-down as Meg had known they would be, but Bella was sitting on a chair in the yard, hopelessly trying to spell out a page in a book. She lifted her head. The book was The Water Babies, and she was aware it was a religious book, the sort it was all right to read on Sundays. But Bella wanted to be able to read it when it was her turn to stand up in class on Monday. The book belonged to the Wesleyan School library and she had promised Miss Atherton faithfully she would have it back by Tuesday.
Bella tried to read, she was desperate to read, just once she wanted to stand up in class and not have the others sniggering and laughing at her attempts.
‘Bella!’ Meg
said again, but Bella could see that she was not annoyed, she was smiling, ‘Bella, pet, will you see the kettle is boiling for the tea for me? I’ve already set the table and everything is ready. Only I might be a bit late meself.’
‘Aye,’ said Bella eagerly, always pleased to help. ‘I mean, yes, Meg, I will.’
Bella lived in fear of Miss Atherton who was trying to get the children to speak properly. Miss Atherton spoke lovely though sometimes she sounded as though she had a mouthful of marbles.
‘You won’t forget?’
‘No, no, Meg, I won’t forget.’ For the minute, Bella had forgotten the book though. ‘I have nothing else to do.’ She looked hopefully up, wanting Meg to say, ‘Come along of me.’
Meg knew very well what was in Bella’s mind but she didn’t let on. ‘You could learn your lesson, that’s what you should be doing,’ she said sternly. ‘I heard you had to be prompted this morning.’
‘Who said that?’ wailed Bella, red-faced. ‘I bet it was our Miley.’
‘Never mind who said it, just try to learn it this week, pet, try harder for me.’ But Meg knew that Bella did try hard, her whole life was trying hard to be as good as the other children, but no matter how hard she tried she never managed to rise beyond the bottom section in weekday or Sunday school. Meg felt mean for saying it as she let herself out of the house and walked down to the corner of the rows.
Wesley was there waiting for her, lounging against a wall and whistling quietly through his teeth. He fell into step beside her wordlessly and they walked side by side, not touching, leaving at least a yard between them.
Meg glanced sideways at him. He was different somehow, without the other lads to back him up; quieter, not so brash. Was he a bit bashful? She noticed his arms and shoulders, bursting out of his Sunday suit. They were powerful-looking, the shoulders of a mature man, like all shoulders of lads who swung a pick down the pit, often in seams less than three feet high.
How did he manage those long legs when he was working in such cramped conditions? she wondered. His legs were gangling, there was an air of coltishness about the way he walked. He caught her eye and looked quickly away, and Meg felt an impulse to giggle which she quickly suppressed.
There was no one on the road they took out of the village which led to the track winding over the fields to the wild area of scrubland known locally as the bunny banks for the profusion of rabbits which occupied it. Fleetingly, Meg remembered the rabbit which Miles and Jack Boy had brought in during the lockout, the blind helpless babies inside it. She looked about to distract her thoughts. There were gorse bushes and whinney and dark green shoots of broom growing in uneven disorder. The grass beneath the bushes had that close-cropped, velvety texture which always shows where the land is being grazed by rabbits.
Wesley stopped on the side of a small hillock and looked at her fully for the first time.
‘We’ll sit here?’ he asked. They were the only words he had said since his muttered greeting at the end of the rows.
‘I thought we were going for a walk,’ she objected.
‘Oh, howay man, we can have a rest, can’t we? We’ll go for a walk after.’
‘I’ll get my dress stained,’ said Meg, eyeing the grass.
It was quite dry but grass stains were murder to get off clothes and this was her good dress.
Wesley sighed. Reaching into his pocket he drew out a large red and white spotted handkerchief and spread it on the ground, sitting down beside it himself.
‘There now.’
Meg sat on the handkerchief, careful to keep her dress over her ankles and knees together. A warning was sounding in her head. But after all, she was just sitting beside him and the soft green turf was pleasant to sit on and the view was grand too. There was nothing wrong in sitting and enjoying the view. Carefully Meg eased her feet forward and folded her dress decorously around her knees.
‘Just for a minute, mind,’ she said primly. ‘And only because I like the view from here. It’s grand.’
She stared out over the familiar countryside, the rolling hills with their crowns of green trees. There wasn’t a pitheap in sight, she thought dreamily, not even tell-tale columns of smoke in the air for it was Sunday.
Wesley, sitting beside her, edged closer a little at a time and she pretended not to notice, though she could feel her cheeks getting warmer with hot colour. Meg felt strange, a little light-headed, and somewhere in the pit of her stomach there was a funny ache.
‘Am I going to get a kiss, then?’
His voice was so soft and close to her ear that Meg started and turned to him, ready with a denial, but somehow it didn’t happen like that. He brought his lips to hers and brushed them together, light as featherdown. Her own parted in surprise. Her eyes widened as she looked up into his. They were almost green, she thought, and there were tiny gold flecks in them, sparkling brightly. He was staring at her intently and she found herself watching the gold flecks glinting and glowing.
Meg sat perfectly still, not even moving when she felt his arms go round her waist as he leaned over her.
This time his kiss was different. He brought his mouth down on hers and at the same time bore her down on the ground so that she could feel the bumps in the grass beneath her head. Her eyes closed, instinctively hiding the rush of feeling, the tremulous delight, which was coursing through her in waves. She was lost to everything but the delighful sensations he was giving her with his lips and his tongue, his hand running up and down her arm, her shoulder, her breast.
‘Margaret Anne,’ he said softly, and she opened her eyes in shock at the upsurge of feeling within her as he buried his face in the nape of her neck. One hand cupped a breast and he brushed the upright nipple under the thin cotton with his thumb.
Suddenly she began to struggle. The nipple was painful still, and it reminded her of how dirty she had felt when Ralph Grizedale did this. She took Wesley completely off guard as she threw him from her and scrambled to her feet, brushing her hair from her eyes and smoothing down her dress, trying desperately to get her feelings under control. He lay on his back, a lazy smile on his face.
‘Did you not like it, then?’
Meg turned her face away. She felt shaken because she had liked it – until it reminded her of the candyman, that is. She was as bad as those women who hung about one or two of the beer houses in Bishop Auckland. How easy it would have been to carry on, to find out for herself what the women were talking about when they gathered round the street tap at the end of the rows, making obscure jokes about men. No, she told herself, if it was that easy to fall she’d best keep away from it, not let men touch her at all.
‘Aw, howay, lass.’
Meg jumped as Wesley crept up behind her and put his arm around her, whispering softly in her ear, cajoling, ‘ticing.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m going home.’
But she had taken only a few steps before he ran in front of her, walking backwards as he talked, his smile beguilingly innocent.
‘Margaret Anne … Meggie! It’s all right. It is, really. I’m sorry, I won’t touch you again, I promise I won’t. Not if you don’t want me to, that is. Howay, we’ll go for that walk, eh? What do you say?’
Meg hesitated but only for a moment, trying to decide if she trusted him. What if someone had come out of the village and seen them like that on the ground? She’d never be able to hold her head up again. She walked on.
‘Meg!’
His appeal was cut off suddenly as he caught his foot in a rabbit hole and went head over heels on the grass. Meg’s innate sense of the ridiculous got the better of her and she burst out laughing to see the expression of surprise on his face as he lay there, winded. Her blue eyes twinkled with merriment and for a moment she thought he was going to take offence for he scowled. But the expression was only momentary. His smile was soon back and he was on his feet, ready to take advantage of her change of mood.
Getting to his feet, groaning loudly, he hopped about on one f
oot, holding the ankle of the other with both hands.
‘Eeh, did you hurt yourself?’ she asked.
‘I did, I did!’
Meg quickly controlled her laughter as she sat down on the grass again and loosed his boot and held up his foot – which showed no sign of injury as far as she could see.
‘It doesn’t look bad,’ she said.
‘Oh, aye, but it is. It doesn’t always show right away, you know.’
Meg knelt by his side and took the offending foot in her capable hands, taking off his thick wool stocking and gently massaging the ankle.
‘I bet it will be twice the size in a minute,’ declared Wesley, enjoying the change in his fortunes. ‘I won’t get my boot back on. Then what will I do? You’ll have to carry me home, that’s all. Do you think you’re strong enough?’
‘Well, I don’t know, I don’t think—’ she began gravely, then looking up at him, saw the merriment in his eyes. He was having a hard time not to laugh openly.
‘Wesley Cornish!’ she snapped, intending to be stern, but his grin was so infectious she couldn’t help the corners of her mouth lifting and soon they were grinning at each other, sharing a joke.
Wesley leaped to his feet and demonstrated how strong his ankle was by doing a little jig before sitting down again and putting on his stocking and boot. He offered her a hand to help her up, and after a moment she put her hand in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet.
Somehow the incident had changed the atmosphere between them altogether and they continued their walk hand in hand. Her own fingers were work-roughened and the nails, though possessing a natural shapeliness, broken and brittle owing to their constant immersion in hot, soapy water. But her hand felt soft and smooth compared to his. His was a real man’s hand. She was supremely conscious of the feel of it as they strolled over the hill and down the other side to a grove of trees at the bottom. There was a pond they had to skirt before they got to the trees, and as they watched a pair of ducks flew in and landed on the water, quacking loudly and paddling around busily.