The priest sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing. The heavy silence which now fell on the kitchen was broken only by the sound of Muriel clasping and unclasping her hands in the background, and it was this which made Bess say, ‘I’m sorry, Father.’
‘This man, this . . . gentleman. I take it he wasn’t from these parts?’
‘No, Father.’
‘But he was of the faith?’
Bess looked steadily at the priest. ‘He was married, Father. With a child.’
‘That isn’t what I asked. Was he of the true religion?’
Bess swallowed hard but didn’t lower her gaze. ‘He had no religion, Father. He was an atheist.’
This time the silence stretched and lengthened until Muriel, unable to bear it a moment longer, gabbled, ‘Won’t you have another girdle cake, Father? An’ there’s more tea in the pot.’
Father Fraser motioned away the offer with an abrupt movement of his hand. His eyes hard on Bess, he said, ‘I think it is as well I shall be here when your father arrives home. As big a shock as your condition will be to him, his greater sorrow will be in knowing you have scorned the Church’s teaching on consorting with those whose eyes are blinded.’
Did he really believe that? Bess stared at the priest. And then they heard the back door open and footsteps in the scullery. Wilbur walked into the kitchen. She saw his eyes flash round the room before they came to rest on the face of Father Fraser, and as ever a pious note crept into his voice when he said, ‘Father, I didn’t know you were paying us a visit the day.’
‘For once it is a visit which gives me no pleasure, Wilbur.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Sit down, my son.’
It was a moment or two before her father obeyed the command; he had sensed something serious was afoot. Just the fact that Father Fraser was sitting in the kitchen would have alerted him to the severity of the crisis. The priest was usually ushered into the hallowed front room on his visits to the house, the fire which lay dormant between such occasions being lit immediately in the colder months.
‘Now,’ Father Fraser sat up straighter, bringing his hands onto his knees, ‘prepare yourself as best you can for a great shock, Wilbur.’
He was enjoying this. Bess found she was quite incapable of movement; she had been from the moment her father had returned home, but her mind was more than making up for the stillness of her body. It told her Father Fraser was experiencing a covert but deep satisfaction at her downfall. She had been an irritating thorn in the priest’s side for some time, what with missing Mass and so on, and more than once he had spoken scathingly from the pulpit about the new ideas which were being bandied about and how the war was going to be the ruination of many a young girl. He must be relishing the knowledge he’d been proved right in her case.
Wilbur remained immobile as Father Fraser talked on but his face became a mottled red and his whole body seemed to swell. Muriel was standing by the range, her hand across her mouth. She could have been carved in stone.
When the eruption came it took the priest by surprise, so much so he nearly fell off his chair. Wilbur leaped to his feet with a cry which sounded almost inhuman. Not so Bess. She had been waiting for her father to react.As Wilbur lunged at her, she took sanctuary behind the bulky figure of Father Fraser, knowing her safety depended on it.
Pandemonium followed. Muriel’s shrill shrieks and Bess’s screams mingled with Wilbur’s curses and the priest’s remonstrations as he bodily held Wilbur off his daughter. If it had been anyone but Father Fraser, there was no doubt Wilbur would have knocked him to the floor, the rage he was in, but the deeply superstitious streak which made up the main part of Wilbur’s belief held firm.To strike a priest was inviting the fires of hell to consume you.
It was only a minute or two before Wilbur came to his senses, but beads of sweat were standing out on Father Fraser’s brow, his face as red as a beetroot.
‘I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry,’ muttered Wilbur.
Father Fraser was panting heavily and he still stood with his arms stretched wide, Bess cowering behind him, for a few seconds more. Then his hands slowly dropped to his sides and he took the seat he’d vacated, bending forward and touching Wilbur’s arm as he said, ‘I understand your outrage and disappointment, my son. For a child to be born out of wedlock is a grievous sin to be sure, but when the father is godless, a heathen.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve been given much to bear.’
Wilbur raised his head. He didn’t give a damn what religion the father was, not in these circumstances, but his voice did not betray this when he said, ‘Just so, Father.’
‘But now you must rise above this tribulation with God’s strength and direction, Wilbur. The wayward soul needs to be chastised and corrected. Didn’t the good Lord Himself extend the hand of compassion to the harlot at Jacob’s Well when she truly repented of her sin? Your duty is to see to it that the wicked forsakes her way and sins no more.’
Behind the priest, Bess stiffened. Did Father Fraser understand what he was saying to her da? Did he know he was giving him carte blanche to treat her however he wanted? And she wasn’t a harlot. She had loved Christopher, she’d loved him with all her heart and believed they were going to live the rest of their lives together once the war was over.
She must have made some involuntary sound or movement although she wasn’t aware of it, because in the next moment Father Fraser turned to look at her and her father said, ‘You. Get upstairs if you know what’s good for you.’
‘I . . . I’m sorry, Da.’ She knew better than to go anywhere near him but she lifted her hands pleadingly. ‘I didn’t mean it. I thought we were going to be married, I didn’t know . . .’ Her lips trembling and her voice low she said again, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not yet you aren’t but you will be. Oh aye, m’girl, take it from me, you will be. Because of you I won’t be able to hold me head up once this gets around. Now get up them stairs like I told you.’
The priest’s grim expression didn’t change and Bess knew she had received the only help she was going to get from that quarter. She glanced at her mother, and in the second or two that their gaze held she read the same panic and fear she knew must be reflected in her own eyes. Her life wasn’t going to be worth living from this point on. And then the flutter deep inside her belly came again. Bess straightened her back and stretched her neck and it was with her head held high that she left the room.
Chapter 3
‘She’s a bonny bairn, Ronald, now isn’t she? An’ as good as gold the day long. She’s never bin a moment’s trouble.’ Muriel’s voice held a pleading note as, together with her son, she watched Bess’s daughter play with a wooden spoon and an old saucepan lid on the clippy mat in front of the kitchen range.
Ronald Shawe didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, his voice flat, ‘Aye, she’s bonny, Mam.’
Muriel glanced at his face and then said quickly, ‘Ee, lad, you’ve finished your tea. Have another cup afore it goes cold an’ the last of that jam roll.You must be able to smell it ’cos you never fail to turn up when I’ve just baked one.’
Ronald smiled now, patting his mother’s hand as he said softly, ‘No one makes a jam roll like you, Mam, but don’t tell May I said that or she’ll have me guts for garters.’
‘Oh, our Ronald.’ Muriel, pink with pleasure, placed the last of the roll on his plate. ‘Your May’s a canny little cook an’ well you know it.You don’t look as if you’re fading away to me, that’s for sure.’
‘Aye, she keeps me fed.’ Ronald’s voice was cheery but he didn’t feel cheery inside, he never did when he called at his parents’ house and was confronted by the evidence of the shame his sister had brought on them all. He wished he could feel differently, wished he could take to the bairn like his mam had but he was with his father on this. Every time he set eyes on Bess’s daughter his stomach twisted. But his mam loved her and he loved his mam, so for her sake he held his tongue and pretended to play the fond uncle. But his mam kne
w. He’d never been able to pull the wool over her eyes about anything. And she had never once suggested she bring the baby over to their house in the twenty or so months since she had been born, which spoke for itself.
‘An’ you’re all keepin’ well in spite of this Spanish flu then?’ Muriel said now, pouring him a second cup of tea and adding a spoonful of sugar to it.
Ronald nodded, his mouth full of jam roll. His mother tried to keep her voice casual but he knew she was worried. The beginning of 1918 had seen a virulent strain of influenza sweep across the globe and take millions of lives. It was said to hit the old and very young and those with a weakness hardest, so the heart murmur which had prevented him being called up might now prove to be a mixed blessing. September had been a bad month, with people dropping like flies, but they were saying October would be worse. He swallowed before saying reassuringly, ‘I’m fine, Mam, never felt better. All right? And they’re saying the war will be over by Christmas so that’s something to be thankful for.’
‘Huh.’ Muriel sniffed her disbelief. ‘I’ll believe it when it happens an’ not a minute before.’
‘Gamma?’
They had been unaware of the child tottering towards them but now small dimpled hands caught at Muriel’s skirt. Muriel bent and lifted her granddaughter into her arms, saying, ‘Aye, me bairn? What do you want?’ She brushed a wisp of golden-brown hair from the small forehead.
Bright blue laughing eyes under a crown of thick loose curls stared back at her, and when small arms went round her neck in a stranglehold, Muriel hugged the child tight. She had loved both her children from the day they were born but the emotion she felt for this flesh of her flesh was something beyond. Maybe it was a result of the nightmare she and Bess had endured at the hands of Wilbur in the months leading up to Amy’s birth when she’d feared the baby would be stillborn. Or perhaps it was the fever Bess had had following the delivery, which had necessitated her taking over the care of her granddaughter from day one, that had created the bond between them. Certainly by the time Bess went back to work when the baby was a few weeks old, she had known the child was a blessing the like of which only happens once in a lifetime, and then if you’re lucky.Which was strange considering the circumstances of the bairn’s begetting.
The child settled on her lap and Muriel turned to her son again, ignoring the hurt she always felt at his lack of contact with his niece. He had a plateful to deal with at home, that’s what it was, she told herself. May kept a clean house and certainly with their eldest being just four and the youngest twelve months, and a two-and-a-half between, she did her duty as a wife. Their fourth was due in a couple of months an’ all. Aye, they were good Catholics right enough, but she wasn’t daft and she knew things weren’t right between her Ronald and his wife. There were times when he seemed as miserable as sin and didn’t speak May’s name for several visits. Mind, she knew what the root problem was. Just from the odd word Ronald let slip now and again, she knew May’s da had too much say in their going-on.
Course, they’d all been grateful when Terence O’Leary had set Ronald on at the Monwearmouth Iron and Steel Works where he was manager when her lad began courting May. Jobs hadn’t been so plentiful before the war and it had been a godsend, but sometimes she thought Mr O’Leary had all but bought their Ronald, mind, soul and body. And she herself had heard May remind Ronald that they were where they were today because of her da, which no man would like. He should give her what for but he was too soft.
Attacked by the feeling of disloyalty which always accompanied such thoughts, Muriel now said, ‘Thanks for poppin’ in, lad.’
‘I only come for the jam roll,’ said Ronald, the squeeze of his hand on his mother’s shoulder belying his words. He got to his feet. ‘I’d best make tracks now, Mam. I’ve got to—’
What he had to do Muriel never found out because the back door opening cut off his voice. The next moment Bess stood in the doorway from the scullery. There was a pause during which brother and sister stared at each other. Ronald hadn’t seen his sibling since the day Wilbur had gone to Monkwearmouth to inform his son of Bess’s fall from grace, as a result of which Ronald had declared his sister wasn’t welcome at his home any more. Bess had received this news in silence and hadn’t mentioned Ronald’s name since.
‘Hello, Bess.’ Ronald’s voice was flat but his heart was pounding against his ribs. He barely recognised the pretty, sparkling-eyed lass he had grown up with in the gaunt, sickly-looking woman in front of him, and the conscience which had pricked him more than once over the last two years was making itself felt.
Bess inclined her head but it was to Muriel she spoke, saying, ‘They’ve sent me home from work, they reckon I’ve got the flu and they don’t want it spreading any more than they can help. Half the girls are off as it is.’ And to Amy, who had struggled off Muriel’s lap at the sight of her mother and was now demanding to be picked up, she added, ‘Not now, hinny. Mam’s feeling poorly.’
‘Oh, lass.’ Depositing Amy back onto the clippy mat with her saucepan lid and spoon, Muriel took her daughter’s arm. ‘I told you you shouldn’t go in this mornin’, you looked middlin’ then.’
‘And have Da ranting and raving that I was swinging the lead?’ It was bitter. And then, as Bess swayed slightly and Ronald made a move towards her, she said grimly, ‘Don’t touch me.You don’t want to get contaminated, do you?’ And all three knew she wasn’t talking about the flu.
Ronald, his face the colour of beetroot, watched silently as his mother helped Bess to the table where she sank down on one of the hard-backed chairs. He was utterly at a loss to know what to say.
Muriel took pity on him.‘You get off, lad,’ she said quietly. ‘If this is the flu you don’t want to catch it, now then, not with the bairns, an’ May in her condition.’ She didn’t mention Ronald’s heart problem; he was a mite touchy about being reminded of what he saw as a weakness.
‘Aye, I’d better.’ But still he didn’t move. He licked his lips. ‘Bess?’
For a moment it looked as though Bess was going to ignore him but then she lifted her head. ‘What?’
His tongue passed over his lower lip again. ‘I . . . I hope it’s not the flu.’ Say it, he told himself. Tell her you’re sorry for how you’ve been. Tell her she’s welcome to call any time, the bairn too. But he couldn’t. The words were sticking in his throat and choking him.
Bess looked at her brother for a few seconds, her cheek-bones standing out under her pasty skin which held the faintest tinge of yellow. ‘I’ll cope,’ she said shortly. ‘Same as I always do. Anyway, Mam and I are a good team, aren’t we, Mam?’ She smiled at her mother before resting her head on her arms again. ‘I’m cold, Mam. Can I take the stone bottle up with me?’
‘Course, lass, I’ll fill it now.’ Muriel flapped her hand at her son as she bustled over to the big black kettle standing on the range. ‘You go, lad,’ she said again. ‘There’s nowt you can do here and doubtless she’ll be as right as rain in a week or two.’
Ronald cast a last glance at his sister before his gaze moved to little Amy who was happily engrossed in banging the saucepan lid. The child was bonny, there was no doubt about that, and where had those deep blue eyes come from? Had to be the father. For the first time since Amy had been born, he thought, Poor little mite. What a start in life she’s going to have. He walked over to his mother, touching the wrinkled cheek with his lips before he said, ‘Bye, Mam. I’ll see you on Friday then.’
‘All bein’ well, lad.’ Muriel inclined her head towards Bess. ‘We’ll see how things are.’ Once Bess was home from work on a Friday, she and Wilbur went to Ronald’s for a spot of dinner and a cup of tea most weeks. ‘I’ll let you know, shall I?’
Ronald hesitated before walking into the scullery and through to the backyard. Here he stood still, gnawing at his bottom lip before thrusting his cap on his head and pulling his muffler tighter round his neck. It was only the first week of October but already they’d had a c
ouple of white frosts and the air today was raw.
Should he go back in there and make his peace with Bess? It was the perfect opportunity without his father about. He lifted his eyes to the sky which was low and heavy with dark clouds and seemed to be resting on the rooftops. His father wouldn’t thank him for it if he did; neither would May’s, for that matter. And May would take her cue from her da, same as she did on everything. Mr O’Leary had made it plain that a bastard in the family reflected on everyone, even the in-laws, and that he felt he ought to distance himself from his sister. But seeing Bess today, his heart had gone out to her.
A gust of wind carrying raindrops in its wake settled the matter. He’d best get off home before he got caught in the storm which was forecast; he could always call in and see Bess in a week or two when she was feeling better. Likely she’d be more inclined to accept the olive branch he intended to extend then anyway. Aye, that’s what he’d do, he reaffirmed as he strode off down the lane. And if May and her da didn’t like it, they’d have to lump it.
By the middle of October most of the schools in Britain had closed because of the influenza epidemic which was taking over two thousand lives a week in the capital alone. The disease was ruthless in its culling of a population already drained by years of war, and although there were now definite signs that the war would be over in a few weeks, no one was rejoicing, least of all Muriel. She stood now in Bess’s bedroom listening to her child’s laboured breathing. Dr Boyce was examining her for the third time in as many days and although he made a little joke which elicited a wan smile from Bess as he gently pulled the covers up over her chest, Muriel knew he was worried.
The Rainbow Years Page 4