Across a Summer Sea

by Lyn Andrews

  ‘Did you have a good night?’ she asked, drawing back the curtains, when she finally went in to see to Frank.

  ‘What do you think?’ he muttered sullenly. ‘And you took your time, I’ve been awake for hours.’

  ‘I’ve had a bad night myself and the beginnings of a headache, so please don’t start complaining already, Frank.’

  ‘I suppose you couldn’t sleep thinking of everything and everyone you left over there!’

  ‘I try not to think about it,’ she said wearily, pulling back the bedclothes.

  ‘Liar! It’s him you think about! I know there’s more to it than meets the eye!’

  She bit back the words that sprang to her lips but then cried out as he tried to lash out at her.

  ‘Don’t you dare raise your hand to me, Frank McGann! If you think you’re going to start hitting me you’ve certainly picked the wrong time to do it. Start that and you’ll get no help from me at all. I mean it. Can’t you understand that you need me, even if you hate me, though God knows what I’ve done to deserve that.’ She was shaking with temper. It was a threat that deep down she knew she would never carry out, but she wasn’t prepared to be treated like that.

  ‘You bitch! You hard-hearted little bitch!’ he yelled, beside himself with fury and frustration.

  ‘I’ll come back when you’ve calmed down. I can’t . . . won’t stay here to be screamed at!’

  He picked up the small jug of water from the bedside chest and hurled it at her. It missed her by inches and smashed against the wall, showering her with water and shards of glass.

  She wrenched open the door and slammed it hard behind her. Oh, God, how was she going to bear it?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  SHE HAD BORNE IT for three years. Three long, heart-breaking, wretched years. She now went four or five times a week to the washhouse with the washing she’d soaked in the big tub in the yard. It had become too much of a chore and a disruption to do in their small house. Her savings had long gone so in addition to her own washing she and Maggie had begun to take in more and more of other people’s, and in the evenings, after an exhausting day, she went out scrubbing offices in the business sector of the city. There was no money for tram fares so she walked everywhere and it was often nearly midnight when she returned to Newsham Street.

  ‘Is there anything you need before I take the washing to the bag wash?’ she asked, poking her head around the door.

  Frank looked up. ‘No, but I suppose you’ll be out all morning.’

  ‘You know it takes time, Frank. I’m as quick as I can be.’

  ‘I’m sure!’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘I know you talk about me to the other women, moaning and whinging and looking for sympathy.’

  ‘I do no such thing! People ask about you; they even care.’

  ‘Like hell they do!’ he snapped.

  She refused to be baited. ‘I’ll be off then. See you later.’

  He stared bleakly at the door she had just closed. It was a gesture that seemed to sum up his entire existence. He was shut in, closed off from the world and all the normal people in it. This was his world, his prison, and as each day passed he was finding it more and more unbearable. Oh, what was the use in trying to make any sense of it? What had he ever done to deserve to end up like this? He’d always worked hard, tried to do what was right - until she’d gone off the rails. She was the one who was at fault, not him.

  But a small voice nagged at him. Had she betrayed him? Did he really believe that? Had all that business with Richie Seddon been nothing more than a flirtation he’d blown up out of all proportion, with the aid of that nasty little madam, Nora Phelps? He didn’t want to admit it, but she had done her duty by him. She had come back and she looked after him well and she must be exhausted, yet she never complained.

  Tears of despair welled up in his eyes and fell slowly down his cheeks. When had things gone so wrong between them? It was useless now to try to tell her he was sorry, not after the way he’d accused her of being little better than a whore and called her all those atrocious names. He would never be able to find the words. And what if she laughed at him? Sneered at him and flung his apologies and offers of peace back in his face? No, he could never admit that he had been wrong. Never ask her to forgive him for throwing her out, driving her from her home and friends or for making her leave a good job and a comfortable home for this! He’d even said he hadn’t wanted her to come back, but in his heart of hearts he’d known she would.

  He turned his head and buried his face in the pillow. She’d been so beautiful then - she still was, despite her desperately hard life, but he knew he would never hold her again, kiss her or be able to make love to her. And then there were the kids. Oh, he’d never really spent much time with them, but he wished he had. He wanted to be able to laugh and joke with Tommy, even kick a ball around the street with him. The lad was growing up, he needed a father, but what kind of a father did he have? A useless cripple. And Katie, she was afraid of him. He saw it in her eyes. He wanted to be able to communicate with Lizzie the way Mary did, but he couldn’t. Mary had always had such patience with the poor little mite; he never had. Now he admitted to himself that he had blamed Mary for the way Lizzie was. He’d felt it was some kind of a slur on him that the child was not perfect. Oh, God, what was the point of it all? His life was just that - pointless. There was no meaning to it at all. No future . . . nothing! Deep sobs of remorse and despair racked him and he beat the damp pillow with clenched fists.

  ‘It’s a good dryin’ day, luv,’ Nellie called to Mary as she came back down the street, pushing the old pram Tommy had found and which she used to transport the damp bundles from house to washhouse and back. Nellie was on her hands and knees scrubbing her front steps.

  ‘Thank God. At least now the weather’s fine I won’t have to have it draped all over the kitchen. It makes the whole place feel damp and Frank complains.’

  ‘Aye, it’s easier all round when the weather’s good. Have you time for a cup of tea? I’ve just finished here and I’m parched.’

  ‘I should peg this lot out and he’ll be wanting a drink and something to eat.’

  ‘Ah, to hell with him! Come on in, you look worn out.’

  Mary smiled tiredly. ‘Oh, I suppose a few more minutes won’t make much difference. I get the height of abuse no matter what I do.’

  Nellie shook her head as she carried the bucket and scrubbing brush inside. Frank McGann was the devil himself these days. Mary was a saint to put up with him; many women wouldn’t.

  Mary put the washing in Nellie’s scullery, sat down at the kitchen table and tucked some stray wisps of hair behind her ears. Glancing up she caught sight of herself in the mirror on Nellie’s wall and really looked at herself closely for the first time in months. She was pale and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes and she was so thin that her collar bones stood out. Her hair seemed to have lost its colour and lustre and the drab, washed-out, almost thread-bare blue print blouse hung on her. Oh, how she’d aged! Tears pricked her eyes as she thought of the lovely cream pin-tucked blouse and russet-brown skirt she’d had for best when she’d first come back. And the smart brown cord jacket and small, jaunty brown and cream hat. They’d long since gone to Uncle’s and had never been redeemed. Rags were all she had now and the serviceable but unfashionable shawl. The uniform of the poor. All her money went on keeping a roof over their heads, food on the table and coal for the fire, although there had been times when there had been very little food and she’d been reduced to sending the children out to scavenge in the gutters for rubbish that could be burnt. By comparison to her own, Nellie’s kitchen was well furnished. Fred had regular work these days and most of her neighbours’ older children had work too.

  ‘Here we are, luv, good and strong and plenty of sugar.’ Nellie set the mugs down on the table.

  ‘Oh, Nellie, I just caught sight of myself in the mirror and I look so old!’

  ‘You’re wore out, girl, that’s wha
t’s the matter with you and no wonder! I only said to Bella the other day, “That girl is killing herself.” ’

  ‘What else can I do?’

  ‘It might get easier when Katie and Tommy are old enough to leave school and get work.’

  ‘That’s not for another two years in Katie’s case and three for Tommy and you know Tommy does what he can selling papers and chips after school.’ He went out in all weathers selling the Echo and the small bundles of wood used to light the fires which were known locally as ‘chips’. She had once hoped that he would get a good job, maybe even some kind of trade so he wouldn’t become just another common labourer with an insecure future, but all hopes of that had gone. He would have to leave school at fourteen. There could never be any hope of him going to the Mechanics Institute, even after work.

  ‘Aye, he does what he can but he’s still not happy, is he?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘No. He’s tried to get something driving horses but they say he’s too young, he’s no experience, and no one will believe him when he says he can drive. Sometimes even I think he’s forgotten everything Sonny taught him.’

  ‘It’s been three years, Mary, and you have to admit that he has settled down and so has Katie.’

  ‘Oh, they have. I don’t know what I’d do without Katie, she’s such a help. She never complains. If only Lizzie had accepted it, though.’

  Nellie nodded sadly. Lizzie was nine now and she went to school but seemed to learn very little. She was a withdrawn child who never smiled or laughed or even attempted to play with the other children. She just sat and watched them, lost in a world of her own that only Mary seemed able to penetrate with the strange hand signs that she herself was unable to fathom out. She knew Mary longed to do more for the child, to try to alleviate her unhappiness, but poor Mary had so little time for anything these days. She was exhausted.

  ‘Oh, Nellie! It . . . it seems a lifetime ago, another world.’

  Nellie looked at her closely. Mary seldom complained, and only very rarely spoke about the life she’d left behind. ‘Do you still think of him, Mary?’

  ‘Every day. Every single day.’

  ‘I’m sorry, luv, I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘It’s all right, I know you mean well.’

  Nellie didn’t want to probe further or open old wounds. ‘So, how is Frank today?’

  ‘Just the same. Bad-tempered, bitter, full of spite and hatred and accusations.’ Practically every day now there was a row when he shouted abuse at her, not caring who heard his vile accusations. She tried not to shout back but sometimes the things he said, the things he accused her of were too much for her to stand and her patience and her nerves snapped. But never once had she mentioned Richard’s name, never once had she betrayed her feelings for the man whose memory still haunted her day and night. Sometimes she had almost screamed that she wished she had done the things he condemned her for, that maybe she’d be happier if she had some memories to comfort her, but she always bit back the words. She’d lost count of the number of times he’d shouted and railed against God and wished he was dead and out of the hell he lived in and, Lord help her, she’d tried not to echo his sentiments.

  ‘Take no notice of him, girl.’

  ‘I try not to but there are times when it really gets me down, when I feel I can’t stand it another minute. I’m almost glad when it’s time for me to go out to work and I can take out my temper on scrubbing floors.’

  ‘God, Mary, I don’t know how you find the energy!’

  ‘Neither do I and sometimes . . . Oh, sometimes when I’m walking back I’m so tired and depressed that every step that brings me closer is harder and harder to take. I don’t want to come back ever, I just want to lie down and sleep and never wake up again. Oh, Nellie, I know it’s wrong, it’s a terrible sin to think like that but I can’t help it!’

  Nellie got up and put her arms around the thin shoulders. ‘Oh, luv, I wish there was something I could do.’

  ‘You listen to me and it helps, it really does.’

  ‘It’s not much, Mary.’

  ‘It is!’ She struggled to regain control of herself. Breaking down in hopeless tears wouldn’t resolve anything. She knew that from bitter past experience. ‘Well, I’d better get back. This isn’t getting anything done. Thanks for the tea and the shoulder to cry on.’

  ‘This door is always open to you, Mary, you know that.’

  She smiled resignedly, took the mug into the scullery and gathered up the washing.

  The house was silent when she let herself in. Maggie had gone to do some shopping in Great Homer Street and wasn’t back yet. She’d better get the washing pegged out in the yard before she heated up what was left of the soup and then went and faced Frank and his complaints, she thought wearily.

  Fifteen minutes later she carried the breadboard, which served as a tray, on which was a bowl of soup and a mug of tea, into the front room. She frowned. He was asleep. Now she would have to wake him or the soup and tea would be cold and he would complain. But he’d moan about being woken too.

  She placed the board down at the foot of the bed below his wasted legs and shook him gently by the shoulder.

  ‘Frank! Frank, it’s dinnertime. I’ve brought you some soup. Eat it while it’s hot.’

  He didn’t move and she bent over him. He was breathing deeply. She shook him harder but he still didn’t wake. Her gaze was drawn to the small dark green glass bottle on the chest beside the bed. He had trouble sleeping these days and because she didn’t want Tommy to be disturbed too much she’d gone to the Dispensary doctor and paid for a bottle of laudanum. A couple of drops in some warm milk helped. She snatched up the bottle and was horrified to find it was empty.

  She shook him harder, half dragging him up in the bed.

  ‘Frank! Frank! For God’s sake, what have you done!’ she cried frantically. Oh, how long had she been out? Four, maybe five hours? Had it been too long? She tried to think calmly. What should she do? Should she keep trying to wake him or should she go for help? She shook him again and then turned and ran.

  She fell into Nellie’s kitchen. ‘Nellie! Oh, God, Nellie, come quickly!’

  ‘Mary, what’s wrong?’ Nellie was startled and instantly anxious. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I can’t wake him! He . . . he’s taken all the laudanum! He must have done it when I went out!’

  ‘Oh, Holy Mother of God!’ Nellie pushed her out of the room ahead of her and the two women ran back to Mary’s house.

  Frantically they both tried to rouse him but it was useless.

  ‘I’ll have to go for a doctor or an ambulance,’ Mary cried, half distracted.

  ‘Go for a doctor. Go to the Dispensary. Don’t call the ambulance.’

  ‘Why not? Wouldn’t it be better? The Dispensary doctor might be out.’

  ‘Mary, they’ll have to inform the police! It’s a crime to try to take your own life! A crime before God and man! Go for the doctor!’ Nellie cried.

  Mary’s eyes widened in horror. She’d forgotten that.

  She was out of breath and could hardly speak by the time she reached the Dispensary.

  ‘Please, where . . . where’s the doctor? I need him to . . . come . . . my husband . . .’

  The nurse looked concerned. ‘I’m afraid he’s out, Mrs McGann.’

  ‘Oh, God, no! Where’s he gone? Please, please, I have to find him! He’s got to come quickly!’

  The woman grabbed a sheet of paper from the desk. ‘His second call was number seven Athol Street; he should be there now. Is there anything I can do?’

  Mary shook her head vehemently and left.

  She ran all the way to Athol Street, pushing and elbowing people out of her way along Scotland Road, and it was with heartfelt relief that she saw his bicycle propped up outside the house. She burst in without even knocking.

  The little group in the kitchen looked up in shock.

  ‘Doctor, I’m sorry but I had to come and find you
. It’s . . . it’s Frank, my husband . . .’

  The man knew her well enough. He’d been called out to see Frank McGann on a number of occasions, and she often came to the Dispensary for advice and medicine, but he’d never seen her so distressed before.

  ‘What’s happened, Mrs McGann? What’s the matter?’

  Even in her distress she remembered Nellie’s words. ‘Can I . . . can I speak to you . . . privately, please?’ she begged.

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs Hepworth, I’ll be back to see to your mother-in-law as soon as I can. I fear this is an emergency,’ he excused himself.

  ‘Now, what’s the matter?’ he asked when they were both out in the street.

  ‘He . . . I came back from the washhouse and I couldn’t wake him, then I noticed that he . . . Oh, doctor, he’s taken all the laudanum!’

  ‘God Almighty! The fool! The bloody fool! How long ago?’

  ‘About five hours I think!’

  ‘You should have called the ambulance.’

  ‘I . . . I couldn’t. It’s . . . you know it’s a crime!’

  ‘You go back, I’ll cycle to the Dispensary. I need a stomach pump. I’ll be as quick as I can but I can’t promise anything.’

  She broke into a trot as he cycled furiously up the street.

  ‘Where is he?’ Nellie demanded. She had been joined in the front room by both Maggie who had returned and Queenie who missed nothing that went on and who had seen Mary tearing up the street.

  ‘He’s on his way. He was out on a call in Athol Street but he’s had to go to the Dispensary before coming here.’

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What possessed him ter do it?’ Queenie asked, full of concern for Mary.

  ‘I don’t know! He . . . he was always saying he wished he were dead but I never thought . . .’ Mary sank down on the edge of the bed and covered her face with her hands, praying the doctor would arrive soon.

  He came rushing in the door ten minutes later but it had seemed much longer to the three women.