For the first time she wondered if he might be as nervous as she was. Emmie went out to the water closet in the back yard. The stars were bright in the sky as she crossed back again. A good omen. She lay in bed waiting for Tom to join her.
Just as she was drifting off to sleep, he stumbled in, groping around in the dark. He climbed in still half dressed and lay there breathing heavily. She could tell from his breath that he was facing her. Emmie reached out an arm and placed it on his shoulder. He shifted towards her, kissing her roughly with whisky-laden breath.
Tom groped at her clothing, pulled back her hair. She tried to slow him down, stroking his head, covering his face in soft kisses. But he fastened his mouth back on hers and leaned his weight on to her. Their lovemaking was quick, mechanical, joyless. He did not even bother to undress. He seemed impatient, full of anger, as if it were a punishment for her, an ordeal for him.
Without even a word of good night, Tom rolled over and fell asleep. Emmie lay, fighting back tears, aching physically, her mind numb. There was no trace of the old Tom, no hint of the tenderness of which he had once been capable. This man was an angry, cold-hearted, embittered drunk. He repelled and frightened her. She wished she could go to Barny and hold him for comfort, but she dared not move for fear of waking Tom.
As the night wore on and sleep eluded her, Emmie listened to the ragged breathing and moaning beside her. From time to time, Tom cried out incoherently and once he sat bolt upright and stared rigidly ahead of him. His face was a mask of terror.
‘Tom?’ Emmie whispered in alarm. ‘What is it?’
But he did not see or hear her; he was still fast asleep. She put a hand to his forehead. He was drenched in sweat.
‘Lie down,’ she coaxed. He groaned, then lay back, curling into a tight ball.
She wondered what nightmare haunted his sleep and felt a stirring of pity. The strain of trench warfare must be intolerable. His mind was fragile, his nerves shattered. Emmie determined once more to try to make Tom’s leave as peaceful and happy as possible. They would put the bad start behind them.
Chapter 30
For the first two days, Tom did little more than sleep, eat and smoke cigarettes by the fire. He was edgy and moody, starting at the sound of footsteps in the yard or when the coal sparked and spat on to the hearth.
‘Shurrup!’ he would bark at Barny if he talked too loud, dropped a spoon or scraped a chair. ‘Can’t you keep the lad quiet?’
Tom refused to go round to his parents’ house or to see anyone.
‘Tell them I’m sleepin’,’ he muttered, retreating into the bedroom when someone knocked at the door.
Emmie felt awkward turning people away and making up excuses. She knew the Currans did not believe her and blamed her for keeping Tom to herself.
‘We’ve done all that baking!’ Mrs Curran railed, when Emmie relayed the message that Tom could not face the party. ‘What will we tell the neighbours?’
‘Tell them he’s had a year in the trenches,’ she replied with spirit, ‘and wants a few days’ peace.’
On the day of the party, he paced around the kitchen like a caged animal, yet snapped at Emmie for suggesting he should get some fresh air and walk down to the shops with her.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked suspiciously on her return. ‘You’ve been out hours.’
‘Queuing, what else?’ Emmie sighed, dumping her meagre shopping on the table. ‘I’m ganin’ down the allotment this afternoon. Why don’t you come and lend a hand? It would do you good—’
‘Stop tellin’ what’s good for me all the time, woman!’ he cried.
Emmie held her temper. ‘Well, you could take Barny out instead.’
The boy glanced up anxiously from the hearth where he had settled to draw a picture for Peter on a piece of cardboard. Tom regarded him with vacant eyes as if he had forgotten he was there.
‘Aye,’ he muttered, ‘maybes I will.’
Emmie was heartened by this small show of interest. She brought out oatcakes and fish paste as a change from bread and dripping, and a bowl of stewed rhubarb sweetened with honey she had bartered for eggs. They ate in silence, Barny’s usual stream of chatter stemmed by fear. This man opposite, who claimed to be his dadda, was always shouting and he did not like talking or singing at mealtimes. Barny hoped he was going to go soon and his real dadda would come instead.
Emmie got Barny into his coat and cap, as the wind was still chill, and told him to do what his father said. She spent the afternoon working hard in the garden, planting seeds garnered the previous season, chatting to Peter. He would be gone in a few days.
‘I’m ganin’ to camp,’ he told her excitedly.
Emmie stopped and leaned on the spade, pushing dark ringlets out of her eyes.
‘Peter,’ she said gently, ‘it won’t be like a holiday with the Clarion Club. You do know that, don’t you? You’ll be gone a lot longer and your mam won’t be able to visit.’
Peter looked at her solemnly and nodded. She shaded her eyes in the spring sunshine and held his look.
‘I love being here in this garden,’ she mused. ‘Do you, Peter?’ He nodded. She stepped closer. ‘If ever you get sad or lonely or a bit frightened - and every soldier does; it’s not a sign of weakness - I want you to think of this place,’ she said softly. ‘You can close your eyes and think of this garden, the chickens running among the beanstalks and your dad’s chrysanthemums. The sound of the pit and the clatter of Lily’s hoofs up the lane. The smell of the coal fires and the henhouse - the smell of the earth. Do it now, Peter.’
She watched him as he closed his eyes.
‘Can you see it, Peter, smell it?’
‘Aye,’ he nodded, then opened his eyes. ‘But I’m still here.’
Emmie smiled. ‘It was just a practice.’
He gave her a quizzical grin.
‘It just means wherever you are - however far from home - you can take a little bit of it with you in your head,’ she explained. ‘And no one can ever take that away from you.’
He gave her a bashful look. ‘Wish I could take you an’ all, Emmie. I never feel frightened when I’m with you. But the trouble is the army would never have you - you being a lass and not likin’ fightin’ and that.’
She laughed. ‘You’re right there, bonny lad.’
He carried back the onions and carrots they had dug to the MacRaes, and Emmie took a handful to put in a broth. She promised to bring Barny round to see Peter before he left and hurried away before they could question her too closely about Tom.
She found Barny squatting by the hearth, still in his coat and cap. The fire was nearly out.
‘What you doing? Where’s your da?’ she asked, getting him out of his coat. Barny said nothing. ‘Oh, lad, you’ve wet your breeks.’
His small face crumpled. ‘Said I had to stay here and not m-move,’ Barny gasped, on the verge of tears.
‘It’s all right,’ she assured quickly, ‘nowt to get upset about.’
She changed him into dry clothes. There was no sign of Tom anywhere.
‘Can you remember what Dadda said - where he was ganin’?’ she asked again.
‘Thirsty,’ Barny mumbled. ‘“Dadda get drink. Barny stay here and not move.” That’s what Dadda said.’
Emmie’s heart sank. Tom had gone out drinking. He could be anywhere. She set about scrubbing the vegetables and making the broth. Evening came, but Tom did not return. She fed Barny, then suggested they go for a walk before bedtime. They skirted the village, Emmie scanning the streets for sign of her husband. She could not go into any of the pubs or clubs, and she knew her search for him was fruitless. A small part of her still hoped he was out walking somewhere, not drinking himself senseless. All she could do was return home and wait.
They were both asleep when Tom came crashing in the bedroom. He swore at them and fell on to the bed. Emmie got up, trying to hush him while removing his boots. He ranted, foul-mouthed, but none of it made much sense. In a
few minutes he had fallen into a drugged sleep.
She bent over Barny and stroked his head.
‘Why does Dadda shout?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered forlornly, ‘but he’s asleep now.’
‘Mammy? Is it ‘cos of the war?’
Emmie swallowed hard. ‘Maybe. Sleep now, pet lamb.’
Sunday morning came and Emmie made a decision. She shook Tom awake and thrust a cup of tea at him.
‘It’s an hour till chapel,’ she said briskly. ‘Your parents expect you. If you do nowt else this week you can manage that to keep them happy. I’ll not be blamed for you not ganin’.’
He squinted at her through bloodshot eyes and groaned. ‘Leave us alone.’
‘No, I won’t.’ Emmie steeled herself. ‘There’s a basin of water on the washstand and I’m frying bacon for breakfast. Up you get.’
He sank back, groaning and cursing her. She pulled the covers off him and left the room. Tensely, she made the breakfast, forcing herself to chat to Barny while wondering what Tom would do. A short while later, she heard a splashing of water and a long drawn-out groan. He emerged half dressed, scowling and creased-faced, and stomped out to the water closet.
He ate in ill-tempered silence while Emmie dressed Barny in his best breeches and pulled on her threadbare white blouse. Together the three of them set out for the chapel, questions about the previous night unanswered. The Currans’ relief at seeing them was transparent. Barnabas led them into the family pew, proud of his uniformed son.
Emmie’s mind wandered as the minister poured praise on the men serving their country, and Tom in particular, and they sang ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’, and ‘Fight the Good Fight’.
She allowed herself to think of Rab and wondered if he would be free in another month. But free for how long? He was still conscripted. The military would come looking for him again, sooner rather than later. This time the Fellowship must persuade him to escape, go overseas if necessary. If Tom could be so changed by a year in the army, what toll would a year of hard labour and solitary have taken on Rab?
After the service, the family stood about talking outside, while well-wishers shook Tom’s hand and slapped him on the back. Emmie noticed how the Attwaters ignored her, as if she were not worthy to be Tom’s wife. Others too were wary and avoided conversation. Instead, they fussed over Barny and told Tom how like him he was growing. Tom nodded and smiled, exchanging banalities, yet his face was tense, his hands clenching and unclenching. Before they left the chapel grounds, Tom had been pressed to half a dozen tea invitations.
They retreated to the Currans’ for Sunday lunch and Tom wolfed down the food before collapsing in a chair in the parlour and sleeping it off. They stayed for tea, wading through food that should have been eaten at the cancelled party, and Mrs Curran sent them home with more. When Emmie suggested they call in on the MacRaes and give them some scones, Tom lost his temper in an instant.
‘We’re not feedin’ them bloody heathen anarchists!’ he cried.
‘We can’t eat all this before it gans stale,’ she protested. ‘And Peter leaves the day after the morra.’
‘Then we’ll feed it to the bloody pigs!’ Tom snarled and, seizing the basket of food from Emmie, began hurling scones over the fence into a neighbouring allotment. Emmie was speechless with annoyance. She took Barny by the hand and hurried on without another word.
When Tom caught them up at home, he was still spoiling for an argument.
He rounded on her. ‘I hear you’ve been helping conchies escape. I’ve been defendin’ me country - me family - and all the time you’ve been hidin’ yellow-bellies. Where do you hide them, Emmie? In the coalhouse? Under me bloody bed?’
‘Don’t talk daft,’ she replied. ‘I’ve hid no one. Who’s told you such tales?’
‘That’s what they’re sayin’ round Blackton,’ he said angrily, grabbing her by the arm.
‘So that’s where you’ve been drinkin’,’ she said impatiently, ‘and listening to bar-room tittle-tattle when you should’ve been looking after our son.’
‘I’m not a nursemaid!’ he bawled.
‘No, you’re a father.’ She glared. ‘Not that you’ve paid your son more than two minutes’ attention since you came back.’
‘Shurrup.’ He struck her hard with the back of his hand.
Emmie grabbed at the table to stop herself falling. She tasted the sweet bitterness of blood on her lip. She faced him, her eyes defiant. Barny ran to her and flung his arms about her legs, staring in mute terror at his father. Tom looked at them in fury.
‘That’s right, turn the lad against me,’ he accused. ‘He hates me and it’s all your fault! Well, the pair of you can gan to hell!’
Tom shoved the table at them, threw a chair out of his way and stormed out of the door. He banged it angrily behind him. Emmie listened to his footsteps march away down the lane, clutching Barny to her. When she could hear them no longer, she let go a long breath.
‘Oh, dear God,’ she whispered, ‘where is this going to end?’
***
Tom went missing. The next day, Emmie went round to the Currans’ looking for him, but he had not gone there. They searched around the village and went over to Blackton, but no one had seen him. After two days, the police were called in and the scandal of his argument with Emmie and disappearance was fanned like fire around the village. Sergeant Graham came to interview her, asking strange questions about her political friends.
‘What’s this got to do with Tom?’ Emmie demanded in confusion. But he would not say.
It was the day Peter was leaving. She rushed round to wave him off, steeling herself against the disapproving glances and whispered comments of her neighbours. Even Mrs Haile from upstairs, a long-time friend, would not speak to her. Barny gave Peter his indecipherable drawing of a horse and Peter gave him his spare tin whistle in return. Emmie hugged him goodbye and he wept like a baby, until Mr Speed chivvied him into the van for the journey to the station.
‘I’ll come round when I get back,’ Helen promised, with an encouraging smile.
After fruitless searches up on the fell, Emmie kept to the house with Barny, as the gossip about her grew.
Louise relayed the wilder accusations.
‘They say you’re in with dangerous revolutionaries,’ she said suspiciously. ‘Some say you’re carrying on with a conchie - that Tom’s found out. You’re not, are you?’ Louise blushed as she asked.
Emmie laughed in shock. ‘Course I’m not. We had a row over Barny, like I said,’ she repeated wearily. ‘Tom hit me and walked out.’
‘You must have really got him angry for Tom to do that,’ Louise accused hotly. ‘If he’s gone and done some’at to himself, I’ll never forgive you!’
That was what plagued Emmie’s mind too - the thought that Tom might take his own life. He was so unstable, he was capable of anything.
Helen and Jonas were Emmie’s strongest support.
‘Come and stay with us till you hear some’at,’ Helen pleaded.
But Emmie refused. If Tom returned and found her gone to the MacRaes it might tip him into madness for good.
Five days after his disappearance, Tom rolled up in the village on a passing farm wagon with his drinking friend Danny. He staggered home, stinking and dishevelled, demanding food for himself and his friend. Emmie’s wave of relief on seeing him alive turned quickly to fury.
‘We’ve been out of our minds with worry, Tom!’ She took him to task. ‘How dare you gan off like that without a word? The things they’ve said about me this past week don’t bear repeating. And all the time you were boozin’ in Newcastle!’
Tom laughed as if it was all a big joke. ‘Told you she was fiery, Danny lad.’ He nudged his mate. ‘Sit yourself down and wor lass’ll fetch you a plate of some’at tasty.’
‘Fetch you some’at tasty?’ Emmie railed. ‘You’ll gan to Sergeant Graham and tell him you’re alive, else you’ll get nowt.’
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But Tom ignored her and the men settled by the fire to play cards, filling the room with smoke from their cigarettes. Emmie was furious. She was about to storm off to the Currans with the news, when she realised Barny had fled the house. Gnawing panic gripped her. She pulled off her apron and went to look for him. Halfway down the street, she saw him running towards her with PC Collier.
‘Lad tells me his da’s returned,’ Johnny grinned.
Emmie stared at Barny in astonishment. ‘He did?’
‘Aye, and he’s brought a friend called Danny, so I hear.’
Emmie ruffled her son’s hair. ‘By, you’re a clever lad.’
Johnny agreed. ‘Not much gets past this young ‘un. I’ll just come and see for myself, then I’ll leave you to it.’
The young policeman took a quick statement from Tom. He was vague about his movements, but the Blacksmith’s Arms in Newcastle seemed to have been his home all week. Emmie had no idea where he had got the money to drink, but no doubt the sight of his uniform provoked people into buying him liquor.
That night, Danny slept on their sofa and Tom made love to her with the same aggressive indifference as the first night. She was nauseous at the smell of his grubbiness and stale breath, glad only at the brevity of the sex.
Danny stayed on for several days, an amiable but selfish guest who did not lift a finger to help or offer a penny towards his keep. Tom treated her with contempt, Danny with benign indifference.
Louise visited, but Tom’s parents stayed away. By all accounts they were scandalised by his behaviour and refused to see him until he sobered up.
‘They blame you, Emmie,’ Louise told her.
‘They would,’ Emmie sighed impatiently.
‘Well, Tom would never have tret us like this unless you’d pushed him to it with all your politics.’
Emmie had had enough. ‘There was a time when you and Sam used to think the way I did,’ she reminded her. ‘When standing up for what you believed counted for some’at round here. Now all you seem to care about is keepin’ up appearances. Your parents won’t even come round to see Tom, they’re so frightened of losing their precious dignity. If they cared about their son at all - or you your brother - you’d be fetching in the doctor and asking why he’s acting like a monster!’
A Crimson Dawn Page 29