Fenwick Houses

by Catherine Cookson

  "I dont know what I told him, I was overcome me self

  "You were overcome yourself ... you were so bad that they let you come straight home. You bloody ...!"

  As he made a lunge towards Sam I rushed in front of him, crying, "No, you dont, not in here!"

  Don drew in a deep breath, then exclaimed, "All right, all right. Have it your way. Not in here, but I'll get him, one way or tother, I'll get him. In a day or so he'll not be able to raise his head in this town again. Steve Moreton has a big gob and I'll see that he opens it.

  Aye, you treacherous bugger, I will. "

  He swung about, and when I heard the back-door close on him, I looked at Sam and saw that he appeared about to pass out. He sank down on the couch and buried his face in his hands.

  Dropping Constance on to the floor I went quickly to him and put my arm about his shoulder.

  "What is it, Sam? Can I get you something?

  Don't worry, I dont believe a word he says, nor will anybody else.

  He's mad, as you said. "

  Nor did I believe what Don had accused Sam of, because it was the greatest crime a pitman could commit. No pitman, even of the worst character, would leave another to die. In the moment of crisis when wits are scattered by shock there may be a temporary pandemonium, but I knew from Dad's talk and that of other men that no man down the pit would leave his mate if he was in need and every man became another man's mate in a disaster. A man would stick to another who needed help closer than a mother would.

  Sam was moving his head back and forth in a despairing fashion and I repeated, "Don't worry, nobody will take any notice what he says or Steve Moreton. You've only got to tell them your side of it and they'll believe you."

  Sam raised his face slowly from his hands and stared in front of him as he said quietly, "Aye, that's all I've got to do. And I'll do it, and I'll keep doing it. It's only my word

  against theirs. There'll be a private inquiry with the club lot, I know, but I'll stick to what I've said. I was in a daze and I didn't know what I was doin'. " Then he turned his eyes to mine, and his voice was calm and without a tremor as he stated, " But I did know what I was doing, Christine, I did shut that air trap on him. "

  I felt my hand lifting away from him, and at the same time I became conscious that he was aware of this and immediately I put it back, more firmly than it had been before.

  "I wanted him to die. I've been wanting him to die for years."

  Oh, Sam! "

  He was staring at me now, his eyes wide, but his voice was a whisper as he said, "There's something wrong with him, Chris tine. He'd be better dead. He's bad, wicked ... and I'm frightened. Not for me self I'm not, but..." He didn't go on, but the look in his eyes told me for whom he was frightened, and all I could say was "Oh, Sam!"

  He should see a doctor, one of those psychiatrist men. He should have been seen to years ago. It's me ma's fault. Oh, no, it isn't, not altogether. " He shook his head as if weary of its weight, then added,

  " I've got to tell you this now, Christine. I've kept it to me self for years, but now, since you know what I've tried to do, I'd better tell you the lot. " His eyes moved away from mine, and he seemed to be staring at my hand on his shoulder. It was as if he was turning away from the words he was about to speak, as if he was sickened by them.

  He said, very low, "Stinker it was him who drowned Stinker, in that sack."

  I felt my stomach heave. My chin dropped on to my chest and I waited.

  And then he said, "The rabbit in the wood that time, it was him who did that. There were more things that you didn't know about, birds and things. And it was him who hid Stinker that time he was lost. And you know why I'm afraid of the dark?" His voice was still low.

  I could not speak.

  "He used to push me into the bottom of the cupboard in the scullery whenever me ma was out, and poke things at me through the air holes You know this dent in the side of my cheek here? " He tapped his cheek where there was a round mark, with the skin a shade paler than the rest of his face.

  Still I could not speak, and he continued, "That was a steel skewer he jabbed through the hole. I was about four then. And he had another pretty trick. After me ma had finished the washing and cleaned out the boiler the iron would still be hot, and he'd lift me in there and pop the lid on. When me da caught him doing this to me he lathered him, and me ma and him had a row. She called it playing. I had burns on me feet and hands for weeks after one bit of playing. I tell you, Christine, he's not right."

  "But, Sam." I was gasping as if I had been running up the hill.

  "But, Sam, if he had died it would have been on your conscience all your life."

  "Aye, I know. When I heard he'd got out I was so relieved I went into church." He was looking at the floor again.

  "Father Ellis was there, and I told him about it in confession. He can't say anything, and I know you never would, but to everybody else I'll deny it."

  "Oh, Sam." I put my arms around him as if he was a small boy and made an attempt to stroke his head, but much to my surprise he pushed me away and got up and went to the fireplace.

  "What if he goes for you?"

  "He won't, not now you know about it. He's got better ways of punishing people than with a punch. For all his bigness and brawn he's really afraid of a fight, I know that."

  "Why dont you ask for a transfer, Sam?"

  He picked up his cap and went towards the door, saying, "No, that idea's no good. Here I am, and here I'm staying. I'll see you later."

  He went out. I watched him go down the yard and listened to him going in next door, but there was no sound of raised voices.

  I stared across the room without seeing anything in it, for I was once again looking at the rabbit and the bird and seeing Stinker's body in the sack.

  "Holy Mary!" I went to my rosary box, which was on the dresser, and, taking out the beads which I had not touched for many a long month, I knelt down by the couch and began to pray: "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women...." And as I prayed I began to cry,

  and when I cried, Constance came from the front room where she had wandered and she began to cry.

  I got up from my knees and took her into my arms, and we were both crying when Dad came in.

  "What on earth's the matter?" he asked.

  "Nothing," I said.

  "I'm just feeling a bit blue." To which he replied, "Aye, we all feel like that at times. I've just heard something that I can't believe.

  They're saying Sam tried to save his own skin and left Don behind. That isn't like him, is it? That isn't Sam. I just wouldn't believe it, and I didn't put a tooth in it when I told them so. Would you believe it?"

  "No," I said.

  "No, I'd never believe that. Why, it's a dreadful thing to say. People are wicked."

  Yes, people were wicked God, how wicked and strangely they didn't appear to suffer. It was others who suffered for them, and through them. There was a question here, a deep, deep question, and I was not even capable of scratching its surface, much less of trying to get at the answer all I ever achieved when I attempted to probe any depths was a dizzying in my mind, and at such times I knew myself to be a clot, a blonde clot who could not think about things that really mattered, only feel about things that didn't.

  CHAPTER SIX

  it was at the end of March, nineteen-forty-four, a Monday morning, and I was in the middle of washing when Father Ellis called. He had for some time been assigned to this district again, but he did not call every week as he had done in my moAer's time. The feeling that had been between us before the child came had not returned. Constance herself was a reminder of that night by the river, and I dont think either he or I ever met without some memory of it returning.

  "And the memory would bring heat to my face and neck. I still went to confession to him, but I knew that I did not make a good confession, for I could not speak of the thoughts that were ever present in my mind and the lo
nging of my body which I knew to be sinful, so because of this I did not often take communion. This was the reason for his visit this morning. He had not seen me at the altar rails of late and wanted to know the reason why. I gave him every reason but the right one, saying it was awkward with Dad's shifts, and that I had no one with whom to leave Constance.

  "What about your Aunt Phyllis?" he asked.

  "Surely she would look after her for an hour or so ?"

  I could not tell him that the very thought of letting the child go next door and come in contact with Don was terrifying to me. More so because Constance was fond of him. If she was playing in the front street and saw him coming up the road she would run to him before I could check her, crying, "Uncle Don! Uncle Don!" and always he had some gift for her, large or small, and I could do nothing about it.

  After Sam had brought into the open the terrible trait in Don's make-up, I had taken a stand saying that the child was being spoilt and could have no more presents except at birthdays and Christmas. But Aunt Phyllis undermined my authority, for she supported Don, saying,

  "Let the hairn have the bit things." She was a strange woman, for had I allowed her she would have treated Constance as she had Don when he was a child and ruined her with extravagant affection, as she still did Don even to this day.

  While Father Ellis was standing on the step saying goodbye, there came between us a flash of the old relationship as he said kindly, "You still miss your mother, Christine?"

  "Yes, Father," I replied.

  "Sometimes I seem to feel her about the house. In fact, I can't believe that I won't go into the kitchen and not find her there."

  He nodded his head, saying, "Yes, I understand. She was a good woman was your mother, and she loved you dearly." His words now brought the past into the present for they seemed to say, "And she would have lived for some time longer but for the shock you gave her."

  "Good-bye, Christine... good-bye, Constance."

  "Good-bye, Father."

  He patted Constance's head as he went down the steps it was the kind of pat he would have used on the head of any child. He had shown no interest in her from the first time he had seen her on the day of her christening, and it seemed to me that he had made up his mind never to have his feelings rent again by showing affection for a child. Perhaps he knew that he should never have allowed himself to single me out; perhaps he had sinned. To a priest all children should be alike, so that when they sinned they sinned against God only.

  Father Ellis's visit depressed me, and it set its seal on the morning.

  Nothing seemed to go right. There were various interruptions, and Constance started to complain of toothache. Then as I was coming to the end of the washing Dad hurried in, saying, "I've just seen young Rex Watson, and he said they've got some beef in and if you go down this morning he'll be there and he'll see you get a piece... a good cut."

  I sighed with exasperation. No matter what cut we got, we would only get rations for two, but Dad liked beef and we'd had none for the last three weeks. He must have seen how I felt, for he said, "Aw, lass, all right, it doesn't matter."

  "I'll go," I said, 'but what about the dinner? "

  "I'll see to that, lass. What is it?"

  "Stew, and I was going to make some dumplings."

  "Don't bother about dumplings, go on, get yourself off and see what's going. And anyway, it'll give you a break."

  I could have been amused at the break of going to the butcher's, but I wasn't in the mood at that moment to be amused at anything, so I simply went upstairs and tidied my hair and slipped a decent coat over my working skirt and blouse. Of late I had taken an interest in myself and used lipstick as a matter of course. I told myself I must keep tidy Aunt Phyllis termed it getting myself up. She had remarked one day recently, "You're getting' yourself up these days, aren't you?"

  I was now wearing my hair in a bun at the nape of my neck, and often would be greeted from passing lorries with, "Hallo, Goldilocks," which was better than, "And her golden hair was hanging down her back," which had been the usual salute, sung in all keys, before I had put it up.

  The day was windy, cold and dull, and I remember as I hurried down the bank thinking, "If it rains I'll never get those things dried indoors and they'll be hanging about all week."

  I was still thinking of the washing when I crossed the bridge and made for Clement Street where our butcher's was, but 10 reach the street I had to pass the air force supply depot near the railway station.

  Airmen and goods were shunted into this depot from the station. Two iron gates opened on to a great yard and sometimes I would see Tommy Tyler driving in or out or helping to load his lorry with boxes or pieces of machinery, for his job was that of a mechanic.

  Today I saw him just inside the gates. He was talking to someone standing at the other side of his laden lorry. I was about four arm-lengths from him when I said, "Hallo, Tommy."

  He turned his head quickly and his hand came up to give me a salute, then he checked it and turned his face from me, dropping his hand to his side again.

  His attitude suggested he was speaking to an officer, and my hail had nearly made him put his foot in it. I had hesitated for only an instant and was going on when the man to whom he was speaking glanced casually round the corner of the lorry, and I found myself with one foot set in mid-air and the other i5i

  glued, as it were, to the ground. It seemed a long time before my feet came together again, and when they did they were pointing straight into the yard and I was walking towards the lorry, and Martin was coming towards me.

  What are human emotions? What are they made up of? Where do they come from? Does your heart really leap within your body? How is it that the sight of a face and a voice can draw from your being such a wave of thanksgiving that you know you are praying for the first time in your life. That you love God and want to sing His praises, for who but He could have kept hope alive, who but He could see through and beyond common sense which would have smothered hope.

  "Why, Christine!"

  That was his voice, as if I had heard it just a moment ago saying,

  "You're like a star that's fallen on a dung heap."

  "Hallo."

  After nearly five years of daily, of hourly longing, all I could say was, "Hallo."

  "You ... you haven't changed, I recognized you instantly. How are you?"

  "Very well, thank you."

  Dear God.

  "Very well, thank you," when I wanted to throw myself into his arms and cry, "Martin! Martin! Oh, Martin, you've come back. Oh, my Martin, I knew you'd come back," and all I could say was, "Very well, thank you."

  "Where are you off to? Have you a minute?"

  Could I say I'm going to the butcher's, they've got meat this week?

  "I've just slipped down to do a little shopping," I said.

  "Yes, I have a minute."

  "Ah, well." He pulled at the bottom of his tunic and jerked his neck upwards out of his collar, and I saw that he was embarrassed, greatly embarrassed, and I wanted to cry, "Oh Martin, dont be like that, forget that night. No, not that night, but forget that you scampered away like a frightened rabbit before the priest."

  "Come and have a drink."

  He took my arm casually and turned me about.

  "Where do you usually go?"

  He seemed to take it for granted that I frequented the bars. Well that was no slight, most girls did these days, nice girls. I was in the world but not of it. I had lived like a cloistered nun since last he had touched my hand. I had been dead from 3 moment after we had rolled laughing on the grass together.

  "Anywhere," I said, smiling at him.

  "I know a place, quiet. Come on."

  He hurried me along as if time was important and there was little of it left, and, taking me up an alley, he pushed open a door which led into a passage and guided me into a room where a fire was burning brightly.

  There were half a dozen iron- legged and glass-topped tables and only
one other couple in the room, an army officer and a smart woman with a heavily made-up face. Martin seated me in the corner with my back to the wall, and took his seat opposite to me.

  "What are you going to have?" he asked.

  I was about to say a lemonade but changed it to, "Oh, anything."

  "Gin... gin and lime?"

  Again I was going to say, "Oh, anything," but it was the smart woman's sidelong glance that made me say, "Yes, that'll do, gin and lime."

  He was leaning with his elbows on the table, his face not far from mine, he was looking into my eyes as I remembered him doing that night, that night that was last night so near it was again, and in a whisper he said, "Oh, Christine. I've thought of you often."

  "Have you?" My voice was soft, my whole being was soft and as wide as an ocean, and was flowing over him in great waves of love.

  "Have you thought of me?"

  I did not lower my eyes when I said, "Yes, all the time."

  A little smile came to his lips as he whispered, "I can't believe that.... You married?"

  "Married!" I screwed up my face then shook my head.

  "No," I said quietly, "I'm not married." I did not say, "Are you?" I knew he wouldn't be married.

  "Well I bet you've been swamped with boyfriends."

  The conversation was not as I had imagined it would be, but perhaps he was just wanting to find out if I had a boy. I said without any subtlety, "I haven't a boy-friend. I've never had one.... Well, only...."

  His face became straight and I watched him blink his eyes rapidly as he sat up straight in the chair. He was about to say

  something when the drinks came, and after handing me mine he clinked my glass.

  "Cheers," he said.

  "Cheers," I said, and tasted my first gin, which I thought horrible.

  He was staring at me from across the table now, when he said under his breath, "You mean to say you've ... you've ..." He dropped his eyes to his drink and twisted the glass between his fingers, and I could have finished the sentence for him, "You've had no one but me ?"