John did not detect the sadness . . . sadness and this girl were as apart as the earth and the sky. To his mind, she spelt radiance, to his body, magnetism; she was ecstasy and joy. But he had only plain words with which to speak: ‘Have you ever seen anything to equal this around these parts?’ He did not take his eyes from her face, but indicated the ice with a movement of his head.
‘Never. It’s like something you’d see in Switzerland.’
Her eyes, playing over his face, made him drunk with feeling; all the barriers between them were being swept away on a swift moving tide. The need was upon him to touch her, if only her hand.
‘Have you been sliding?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t any skates.’
‘What about using our feet? It seems popular.’
‘Here?’ She pointed to the entwined throng below them.
‘No. Let’s go round to the other side; there are fewer people there, and if we fall there’ll be less to laugh at us.’
Mary made an almost imperceptible motion with her head. The action was more pointed than words in its acquiescence.
They turned together. Then stopped. It was the red tam-o’-shanter that brought itself to John’s notice. Without it, Christine, at that moment, would have been merely another face—even Katie was just part of the crowd.
Christine and Katie stood hand in hand below them, silent and staring.
‘Why! Hallo, Katie.’
‘Hallo, Miss Llewellyn.’ Katie’s fat, rosy cheeks were very like the proverbial apples as she smiled.
‘Are you having a lovely time?’
‘Yes, Miss Llewellyn.’
‘And did you have a nice Christmas?’
‘Oh yes, Miss Llewellyn. Oh, lovely! And thank you, Miss Llewellyn, for the presents and all the lovely fruit.’
Mary’s eyes were forced from Katie’s to the girl in the red hat. The girl was staring at her; her eyes, dark and enormous, seemed to glow with a purple gleam. Even in the dusk, their light was penetrating, and Mary felt it stripping her. It was an odd sensation. It was almost as if the girl was looking into the very depths of her heart and finding there things of which even she herself was not aware.
When John said, ‘This is Christine,’ the girl, with a lightning movement, whirled Katie round and away, and in a moment they were lost in the moving figures and the dimness.
The situation had suddenly become awkward. Why had Christine dashed off like that? He knew fine well why! His neck became hot. Then a surge of relief swept over him . . . thank God he had never made up to her! He was free in that sense, anyway . . . free for Mary. Oh, the daring, the audacity, the madness of it!
He turned towards her again, and this time the sadness in her face was clear to him. She too then had seen how Christine felt. He must make it clear to her that there was nothing in it.
‘What about the slide?’ he said.
Without answering, she turned from him, and they threaded their way among the crowd.
‘Christine’s a nice girl,’ he began lamely.
‘Yes, she looks it.’
They were forced to step apart to make way for a group of running children, and when they came together again, he continued, ‘I don’t think she’ll ever grow up though. She’s . . . well, she’s just like Katie.’
She looked at him and smiled, a small, understanding smile. He smiled back at her, and they walked on in silence.
The far bank was almost deserted, the crowds having been drawn to the light of the bonfire and the man with the brazier and the roasting potatoes. The ice, too, was not so smooth here, for tufts of grass broke the surface.
‘Shall we chance it?’ He held out his hand, and she took it and stepped from the bank on to the ice. ‘Single or double?’
‘Single I think, for a start . . . You go first, I haven’t been on the ice for two years.’
‘Two years! It must be at least eight since I was on a slide . . . Well, here goes.’ He ran and started to slide; wobbled, steadied himself, and wobbled again; then, with a suddenness that found every bone in his body, he sat down on the ice with a heavy plop.
With a sureness that spoke of past schooling, she reached him as he was getting to his feet. He was laughing, and said, ‘Good job you weren’t behind me.’ And when he felt her hands gently dusting his shoulders he prolonged his own banging of his clothes to shake off the loose snow.
‘Shall we try again?’ he asked.
‘If you like,’ she said; but there was little enthusiasm in her voice.
‘Do you want to slide?’ He was facing her now, their breaths were mingling and their eyes holding. The words were a question that did not mean what it asked, and she answered with a candour that seemed to be of the very essence of the day.
‘No.’
He reached out and took her hand, and they walked carefully towards the bank again.
‘Would you . . . would you like to go for a walk? Or what about Shields?’
‘Not Shields. Let’s go for a walk.’
They walked down the narrow lane and on to the main road without speaking. Being a country road it was unlit, and in spite of the snow covering it, it appeared black after the glare of the fire-lit field. The darkness gave him courage, and he unclasped her hand and drew her arm through his, entwining his fingers through hers and holding them close to his coat. They walked on in step, and as he felt her hip moving against his he became conscious of the stillness between them, a stillness that seemed to be waiting only for the right moment to burst into sound . . . sound that would bewitch and delight him, because it would be her voice telling him what he wanted, above all things, to know. But as they walked on, it seemed to him as if the silence would never be broken.
When, of one mind, they turned down a side lane and stopped and faced each other, he told himself that never before had any man felt for a woman as he felt for her. But now the moment had come he seemed paralysed, and even the potency of his feeling could not lift him over the barrier to her. It was she who opened the way, with such words that flung barriers, prejudices and classes into oblivion: ‘Oh, John, if you don’t tell me I won’t be able to bear it.’
There was a second of wonder-filled time before his arms went about her, not gently, as he had imagined them so often doing, but savagely, crushing her into him until he could feel her racing heart pounding against him. He did not kiss her immediately. His lips travelled the whole surface of her face before they reached hers, but when they did, their bodies merged and rose, above the snow and ice, above their separate lives, away from this earth to some ethereal place where time is not. When, swaying together, their lips parted, it seemed to them both as if they had actually fallen into another era of time, so much did they know of each other.
‘Mary.’
She did not answer but leaned upon him, moving her face against his.
‘I love you.’
Her arms tightened about him.
‘I’m mad . . . I shouldn’t say that.’
‘Oh beloved.’
Beloved . . . a woman had called him beloved . . . him! This beautiful woman, this girl, this . . .
‘How is it you can care for a fellow like me? Mary! Oh, Mary!’
Her reply was smothered against him. And when he would have again begun deprecating himself her fingers covered his mouth. ‘You’re the finest person I know—there is no-one to come up to you.’
She cut short his protest: ‘John, let nothing ever separate us, will you?’ Her voice was earnest. ‘Nothing, nor no-one. Promise. Never.’
The urgency in her voice stilled him—it was almost as if she was pleading with him. That she should be asking to let nothing separate them seemed fantastic.
Taking her hand gently from his lips he said, ‘It’s me should be putting that to you. What do you think will be said when this gets about? Will you be able to stand it?’
Her answer was the covering of his mouth by hers with such passion that all the longing, all the loneliness of
his life, all that was drab and tawdry, vanished. Her love for him raised him to a new level of self-esteem.
‘Oh, Mary, my love . . . my dear . . . do you know what you mean to me? Do you know what you stand for?’ He was gentle now, holding her face between his large hands, peering at her, seeing each feature in his mind’s eye: ‘You’re beautiful.’
‘I couldn’t be too beautiful for you.’
Her words were like notes of tender music, borne on the white wings of the snow. He shook his head slowly at the wonder of them. ‘I don’t know how you can love me . . . you who have everything. I’m ignorant, and I’m ashamed of it. Mary’—his voice was shy—‘will you teach me?’
‘Oh, my dear, you don’t need . . .’
He stopped her, ‘Yes, I do need. And you know I do. I never want you to be ashamed of me.’
‘John . . . John, don’t.’
His humility brought the tears to her eyes, as he went on, ‘And there’s my folk. It isn’t that I’m ashamed, only . . . well, I suppose you’ve heard of our family. There hasn’t been much chance for any of us; my mother slaved all her days, and . . . and my father and brother . . .’
‘Sh!’ She leaned gently against him, stroking his cheek as a mother would soothe a child.
She murmured something, and he whispered in awe, ‘What?’
And she repeated, ‘It’s a case of Ruth and Naomi.’
But still he did not understand, yet although the words held no meaning for him, her tone conveyed a deep humility, and he was filled with wonder.
9
Nancy
The home-made paper chains lay in a jumbled heap on one side of the table, the three bought ones lying neatly concertinaed by themselves together with the honeycomb ball. These would do for another year, Mary Ellen decided, if she could hide them somewhere. She had never before been so late in taking down the decorations; it was 5th January, and she was just escaping bad luck by taking them down today, the morrow would be too late. But it had been nice to leave them up till the last minute, for they carried on the feeling of this wonderful Christmas and New Year. By!—she stopped in her work to look out of the kitchen window to the roofs beyond, where the last of the snow was sliding in a grey mass into the gutter—she had never known such a time. The stuff they’d had to eat! And Shane being sober, even on New Year’s Eve; and no rows in the house. There was Dominic’s surliness, of course, but she was used to that and had not allowed it to spoil things. And anyway, he was out most of the time . . . all night, once.
This business of John’s troubled her at times; but what could she do, for he said nothing. He was going about looking like a cat with nine tails. She hoped to God something would happen to make it last. But how could it—him and Miss Llewellyn! Where would it end? . . . Well, she wouldn’t worry—everything else was going fine; the coal house was full of coal and the bairns were rightly set up with clothes, the last, thanks to them next door—the thought of thanks took shape before she could stop it—well, anyway, they had been good, no matter what they were. She’d wished time and again she could go and thank them, but she was unable to bring herself to do so. The fear of them still held her, and she couldn’t face them, so she had sent her thanks by the bairns and John. The fear had strengthened in an odd way too during these past weeks, for Mick’s ear had stopped running for the first time in two years, and Shane . . . Why was it, after all these years, Shane had eased off the drink and his twitching had lessened? Did he find himself lying on a platform above the bed with Peter Bracken’s hands moving over him? My God! She shuddered. It was the first time she had admitted to herself the influence of Peter Bracken on her the night the child was born. She put her hand inside her blouse and felt for her rosary, which she had taken to wearing round her neck of late.
Staring out of the window, she said her beads: Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus . . . She had gone through two decades, when she saw the backyard door open and Hannah Kelly enter the yard.
Hastily, she fastened her blouse.
What did Hannah want so early in the morning? . . . There was something curious about her walk: she couldn’t have had a drop already, surely. She watched Hannah fumble with the latch of the kitchen door, and when she came in and closed the door, and stood with her back to it, Mary Ellen exclaimed, ‘Why, lass, you’re bad! Come and sit down.’
Hannah shook her head and murmured, ‘Oh, Mary Ellen!’
‘What is it? Is it Joe?’
Hannah again shook her head. She tried to speak but the words refused to come, her mouth opening and shutting like that of a fish.
‘What is it then? Nancy?’
Hannah’s eyes drooped and her head fell on her chest.
‘Tell me, lass. What is it?’
‘Dear God, dear God,’ Hannah said, and her voice sounded small and lost, and she looked like a bewildered child in spite of her long, bony frame. ‘I may be wrong. Will you come over with me, Mary Ellen, and see? I came the back way, for Bella Bradley’s on the lookout.’
‘Is Nancy ill?’ Mary Ellen asked, taking her shawl from the back of the door.
Hannah made no reply but went out, and Mary Ellen followed closely after her . . .
Nancy was in bed, lying well down under the clothes, and Mary Ellen, as she entered the bedroom, could see only her eyes. They held an odd look, a mixture of wariness and cunning, an expression not usual to their dullness.
‘Hallo, Nancy,’ said Mary Ellen.
But Nancy did not reply with her usual normal address; she just stared from one to the other.
Hannah, stripping the clothes from her, said, ‘Lift up your nightie!’
With her eyes still darting from one to the other of the two women, Nancy complied. The nightdress was short and tight, and she had to drag it over her hips.
Mary Ellen gazed at Nancy’s stomach. She knew now what Hannah suspected, and she exclaimed to herself. ‘Oh, Jesus, don’t let it be.’ Nevertheless, to her eyes there was nothing really to justify Hannah’s suspicions, and she looked across the bed to Hannah: ‘Lass, what makes you think . . . ?’ she said.
‘She’s past her time, and I’ve seen nothing; and I think that’s what Mrs Fitzsimmons twigged. And her being sick and not working.’ She spoke as if Nancy wasn’t there. ‘Stand up!’ she said harshly to her daughter.
Nancy lumbered out of the bed, still with her nightdress held above her stomach. And now Mary Ellen thought she could detect a small rise. But still she would not believe this thing possible; nobody in their right senses would dream of taking a lass like this.
‘Look, lass’—she turned to Hannah—‘it may only be wind. Or perhaps a growth,’ she said hopefully.
Hannah, her eyes dead in her large, round face, turned away and walked into the kitchen.
‘Put your clothes on, hinny,’ Mary Ellen said to Nancy; and the girl immediately pulled her nightdress over her head and began to dress.
In the kitchen, Hannah was sitting dejectedly at the table, and Mary Ellen said, ‘Get her to the doctor’s, lass. Take her now. It may not be what you think, and it’ll set your mind at rest . . . Anyway, it can’t be that.’
Hannah, in dismay, turned and stared into the distances beyond the kitchen walls: ‘It’s that all right. I’ll take her, but I know.’
‘Have you asked her anything?’
‘Yes, I asked her if a man had touched her, and she wouldn’t answer. And that’s a funny thing in itself, for she always says right away, “No, Ma, when men speak to me I run away.” And then again, twice last week she disappeared. I had Annie out looking for her for three hours on New Year’s night, and she found her round by St Bede’s Church. She had come across the salt grass, but she wouldn’t say where she’d been . . . Oh, Christ . . . Christ Jesus!’ Hannah burst out. ‘What’s going to happen? Joe will kill her. And if he finds out who it is there’ll be murder done. Oh, Mary Ellen, what am I going to do?’<
br />
‘Here, steady yourself, lass. Come on, get up and put your coat on and take her now.’ She pulled Hannah to her feet. ‘You’ll catch him if you go now.’
While Hannah was putting on her coat, Mary Ellen went into the bedroom where Nancy was still laboriously dressing: ‘Hurry up, hinny, your ma’s waiting.’
Mary Ellen found she couldn’t look at the girl . . . If she were going to have a bairn and had kept quiet about the man, then there was some part in her that was sensible, Mary Ellen reasoned. Unless, of course, she was too afraid to say anything. But now that she came to look at her, the lass looked less afraid than she had ever done.
She bustled Nancy into the kitchen: ‘There you are then, lass’—she was addressing herself to Hannah—‘get yourself off . . . And remember, whichever way it goes, don’t worry. You can’t help it; the blame can’t be laid at your door, you’ve done your best.’
She watched them walking down the street, wide apart, like strangers, Nancy humped and shuffling, Hannah as stiff as a ramrod; and a sadness settled on Mary Ellen, the beginning of a long, long sadness.
John hurried out of the docks . . . Friday night and the first week of the new year over, and six boats discharging at the same time. He had just come from the weigh beam after paying off half the men. It was a strange sensation standing at the weigh beam with his pockets full of money and handing each man his due, and feeling that, although he was young enough to be a son to three parts of the men, they liked him and trusted him to give them a square deal. As he left the last arch and passed the bottom of Simonside Bank he glanced through the darkness to the curving incline, and the thought that within the next hour he would be hurrying up there brought a leaping and tingling to his blood. The nights of the past week had been like glimpses of paradise—was there anyone in the world as beautiful and as sweet as her? Where was there a woman of her standing who would take him as he was? He had no notions about himself. Eight years in the docks had not filed him down, but roughened him. The only saving grace, he told himself, was that he was aware of it and would do his best to remedy it. He would have to if he were ever to feel worthy of her, even to the smallest degree. Moreover, another thing he would have to do was to find a better job. It was impossible for him to remain in the docks . . . even as a gaffer, for it would take more than a gaffer’s wages to support her in the way to which she was used. Almost every night of the past week, after he had left her, his main thought had been that he must better himself; and he had worked it out that there was no chance for him in the North, nor yet in England . . . America . . . the Mecca of the Tyneside Irish loomed before him like a lodestar. If she would have him he would go there. Perhaps she would go with him right away . . . No; not for a moment would he consider that. When he had made enough money he would send for her. Not for one day of her life would she live differently because of him . . . And then there was his mother and Katie. If he went to America he’d be able to send them money too. For look at the wages you earned out there! And it wasn’t all moonshine. The Hogans from High Jarrow were doing fine, he’d heard; the father and four lads all in regular work, and sending for the rest of them this year. And there was that young Stanley Tapp, who went out and had his lass follow him. So why shouldn’t he, with his strength and fitness, make a go of it! There was no job he couldn’t tackle. Yes, that’s what he’d do. But he’d have to wait a while before he put it to her; he couldn’t ask her anything yet; it was too soon. Had he been loving her for only a week? It seemed now as though it had been going on for years. And each time they met the knowledge grew stronger that she loved him with an intensity that almost matched his own. This coloured his life, and lifted him to the heights whereon he saw himself wrestling a mighty living out of the world and giving her, not only the things that she was used to, but such things to which even she had not aspired.
The Fifteen Streets Page 15