Without Sin

by Margaret Dickinson

  Clara, on her way towards the door, turned back. Her mouth pursed and her eyes hard she said, ‘Neither of us require your “kind regards”, Mr Rodwell.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Mr Finch was perfectly pleasant the last time I saw him. I thought—’

  ‘When did you see him? You had no occasion to see him. He patronizes a tailor in Nottingham now.’

  Percy blinked, realizing too late that Clara had no idea that her brother still came into his shop.

  ‘I – er – encountered him.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I – er—’ Percy was floundering and Clara was swift to guess the truth.

  ‘He’s been in here, hasn’t he?’ She paused and when Percy did not answer immediately, she shrilled, ‘Hasn’t he?’

  ‘Well, just once or twice.’

  Clara’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, he will not be coming into this shop again, you can count on that.’

  With that parting shot, she stormed towards the door and out of the shop. The bell clanged weakly.

  Forty-Two

  What happened between Clara and her brother, neither Meg nor Percy ever knew, but Theobald Finch did not come into the shop again. The first Christmas of the war passed with no sign of the hostilities coming to an end as people had hoped. Over the months that followed the number of customers coming into the tailor’s shop seemed to dwindle.

  Where he’d once worried about not being able to cope with the pressure of work, Percy now fretted about the lack of orders. ‘We’re losing business. I haven’t made a suit in weeks.’

  ‘Business isn’t so good at this time of the year just after Christmas. You’ve said so yourself. It’ll perk up in the spring. And besides, a lot of the men have gone to war,’ Meg pointed out. ‘We were lucky to get all those orders for suits when we did.’

  Percy’s glance was reproachful. He still felt guilty about all the trade that this terrible war had brought him.

  As the second Christmas of the war approached, the whole town seemed sunk in depression. In January 1916 a fierce debate took place in the House of Commons over conscription, single men to be recruited first. At Middleditch Farm Jake dropped his bombshell over supper one evening. ‘I’m going to enlist and I want Betsy and me to get married before I go. That way, if owt happens, she’ll get my pension . . .’

  Betsy began to cry and George and Mabel stared at the young man.

  ‘Well, Jake Bosley, that’s a fine way to propose to a girl, I must say. There, there, lass –’ Mabel reached across and patted Betsy’s arm – ‘don’t take on so.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to go, lad,’ George said. ‘At least not yet. They’re not calling up married men. If you and Betsy get married quick—’

  Jake was shaking his head. ‘That’d be cowardice and I’ve no wish to be given a white feather.’ He tried to make a joke, ‘Even if there are plenty blowing about the yard.’

  But no one was laughing.

  George sighed. ‘Aye well, I can’t say I blame you, lad. If I was forty years younger, then—’

  ‘George!’ Mabel was askance. ‘I hope you’d do no such thing. You should be telling Jake to forget such nonsense, not encouraging him.’ She turned to Jake and her expression softened. ‘Jake, you’re like a son to us.’ For a moment her expression was pained. ‘Our daughter is lost to us – as good as – and you, well, you and young Betsy have filled the void in our lives.’

  Though a strict taskmaster, Mabel Smallwood could, on occasions, be as soft as the butter she churned in the dairy. She grasped Jake’s hand and then Betsy’s, as if by her actions she would bind them together. Her voice was husky as she said, ‘There’s nowt we’d like better, George and me, than to see you two settle down together. We’ve even talked about how to get you a little place of your own.’ She glanced at George, who added, ‘Aye, we reckon if we did a bit of alteration to the side of the house. Built on a hallway and another staircase and knocked a few holes in the walls, you could have the front room and the bedroom above it and be all self-contained. We’d add on a bit of a kitchen at the back, an’ all. What do you say, now?’

  Jake and Betsy, whose tears had miraculously dried, stared at each other.

  ‘It’s – very generous of you,’ Jake faltered. ‘We – we never expected anything like that.’

  ‘No,’ Mabel said tartly, becoming her usual self once more. ‘And if we’d thought for an instant that you did expect it, well, you wouldn’t be getting it.’ She paused and then her smile took away some of the sharpness. ‘If you see what I mean.’

  Jake’s expression, however, was still sober. ‘Is this – I mean – does this offer still stand if I enlist?’

  Mabel opened her mouth, but George cast her a warning glance and answered for them both. ‘We’re not the sort of folks to make conditions. Besides, you must do what your conscience tells you. I’ve never been one to come between a man and his conscience.’

  Mabel shut her mouth and lowered her gaze. Jake had the feeling that she did not wholly agree with her husband. ‘So,’ George went on, ‘even if you decide to go, we’ll look after young Betsy here whilst you’re gone and – God willing – when you come back, we’ll build a home for you both.’

  ‘I won’t have her at my wedding. I won’t, I won’t.’

  Jake had never seen the quiet, docile Betsy in such a temper. Trying to placate her, he said mildly, ‘I don’t suppose she’d come anyway. She wouldn’t come to Dr and Mrs Collins’s wedding, so I don’t suppose she’d come to ours.’

  Betsy was still tearful and truculent, which was unlike her. ‘But you still want her to come. You still want her to be invited. And the missis doesn’t want her here any more than I do. And they’re paying for our wedding . . .’

  Jake sighed. ‘I know, I know. But the missis is a bit unfair blaming Meg for what her father did. And you – I can’t understand why you don’t want to ask her. I thought you and she were friends.’

  ‘I’d rather Dr and Mrs Collins came to our wedding,’ Betsy said stubbornly, skirting round the real reason why she didn’t want Meg Rodwell spoiling her special day. ‘And – and Meg doesn’t speak to Mrs Collins, so it – it could make it awkward.’ Betsy was jealous of Meg and always would be. She had witnessed how Jake looked at Meg and how, when her name was mentioned, his face altered.

  ‘But they do now,’ Jake insisted. ‘Mrs Collins told me herself. Meg went to the surgery to pick up some medicine for Mr Rodwell and Mrs Collins saw her and they’ve made it up.’

  ‘Oh.’ Betsy looked crestfallen.

  Jake eyed her closely. ‘You don’t look pleased.’

  Betsy was silent. Jake put his arms around her and pulled her to him. ‘Come on, my little love, out with it. What’s really upsetting you?’

  She clung to him, burying her face against his chest so that he had difficulty in deciphering her muffled words. ‘You – you – like her, don’t you?’

  ‘We’re friends.’ Above her head, he grimaced. ‘Well, we were. I’m not so sure now.’

  ‘No – no, I mean, you really like her.’ There followed two words that he could not hear, so he pulled back and cupped her tear-streaked face between his hands.

  ‘Look at me, love,’ he said gently. ‘Come on, tell me what’s troubling you. We mustn’t have secrets.’

  Tears welled in the young girl’s eyes and trickled down her face. Tenderly, Jake wiped them away with his finger.

  ‘You – you love her, don’t you?’

  Jake stared at her, battling with an inner turmoil that he hoped Betsy would never know of. He sighed and, telling her the truth but not quite the whole truth, he said, ‘When I first met her, yes, I did like her. I liked her very much. If it hadn’t been for her, I might still be shut up in that place. She gave me the courage to get out and make a life for miself outside the workhouse. But then –’ he paused for a moment, inwardly mourning the loss of the spirited, fiery girl he had first met – ‘she changed. I suppose – if I’m fair – it was
because of all the things that happened to her, but even so there’s no excuse for some of the things she’s done.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Some things I can’t forgive her for.’

  In a small voice, Betsy said, ‘So – so you – you’re not in love with her?’

  Neatly he avoided giving a direct answer, but nevertheless he was utterly sincere. ‘I love you, Betsy. It’s you I want to marry.’

  Deep inside him he buried all thoughts of Meg forever. And even Betsy had the sense not to voice her deepest anxiety. She didn’t ask aloud: But if Meg weren’t married to Percy Rodwell, what then? Instead she wound her arms about Jake’s neck and whispered. ‘I love you so much, Jake.’

  He kissed her and hugged her and did his best to drive away all thoughts of the beautiful girl with the red hair and the heart-stopping smile.

  On a Saturday morning in March, Meg stood near the front of the shop, gazing unseeingly out of the window into the street.

  Jake was getting married today. To Betsy, of all people. And they were going to live at the farm, treated like the Smallwoods’ own family. They’d all be there, she thought. Philip and Louisa, Letitia Pendleton. Maybe even Isaac Pendleton and Theobald Finch, George Smallwood’s racing cronies, would have been invited.

  They’d all be there. All – but her.

  The wedding was over and after the briefest of honeymoons Jake left to join the army.

  George, shaking the young man’s hand vigorously, could not speak for the huge fear constricting his throat.

  Betsy and Mabel wept openly. ‘Do take care,’ they kept repeating, as if convincing themselves that if he kept a sharp eye open he could easily dodge the bullets.

  Jake hugged them all in turn, keeping his last tender kiss for his young bride. ‘I’m no great letter writer, Betsy, but I’ll do mi best. Will you do something for me?’

  Mute with misery, she nodded.

  ‘Go and see Miss Pendleton now and again. Let her know how I’m faring.’

  ‘Miss Pendleton? Matron?’ Betsy was startled.

  ‘Yes. She’s always been good to me. She was the nearest I had to a mam before I came to live here at the farm.’

  ‘But, but they used to beat you—’

  Firmly, Jake shook his head. ‘She didn’t. He did, but not her. Never her. If truth be known, she saved me from him several times.’

  ‘Did she?’

  Jake nodded. ‘But then, she liked the little boys, didn’t she?’

  ‘Mm,’ Betsy said slowly, remembering how it had been. ‘But she always seemed to like you best.’

  ‘Don’t come to see me off. I want to think of you all here.’ And so the Smallwoods and Betsy went on with their daily routine about the farm, trying not to think about Jake joining the line of marching men on their way to the station.

  The streets of South Monkford were lined with cheering, flag-waving folk. As they passed, Jake glanced towards the tailor’s shop and fancied he saw a glimpse of Meg beyond the shadowy window. But she did not come to the doorway to wave him goodbye.

  Her smile would live only in his memory.

  Inside the shop, standing in the shadows, Meg bit her fingernail down to the quick. He was going. Jake was going to the war. Meg had never felt so terrified in her life. If he was killed and she never had a chance to tell him . . .

  Letitia Pendleton was waiting near the station. She pushed her way through the throng and grabbed Jake’s arm, trying to pull him away from the lines of marching men.

  ‘Don’t go, Jake. You don’t have to. Don’t go.’

  Gently, he tried to prise her clinging hands away, but she held on tightly.

  ‘I have to, Miss Pendleton. I’ve enlisted. I’d be put in prison if I don’t go now. Besides, I want to. It’s my duty and I’ll be called up soon enough anyway.’

  Letitia sobbed. ‘But – I – I might never see you again. And I’ve never told you . . .’

  They’d reached the entrance to the station and the formal lines of marching men had broken up.

  Jake stopped and turned to face her, smiling down at her. ‘I know I’ve always been one of your favourites.’

  Letitia was sobbing uncontrollably, her arms trying to enfold him. ‘It’s more than that. Jake, there’s something you should know. Something I want you to know.’

  ‘I have to go, Miss Pendleton. They’re all getting on the train now.’

  He planted a kiss on her round cheek, wet with tears. ‘When I come back,’ he promised, ‘I’ll come and see you.’

  He pulled away from her and marched purposefully towards the station entrance and in through the archway.

  ‘Jake . . . Jake . . .’ Her cry followed him, echoing eerily. ‘Don’t go. I have to tell you . . .’

  He marched on and, if she said more, Jake did not hear it.

  Forty-Three

  The war dragged on through 1916. The people of South Monkford scoured the casualty lists in the local paper and those with menfolk at the Front waited fearfully for the dreaded telegram.

  Philip Collins enlisted, and whilst he tried to reassure his wife that in his work as a medical officer he would be comparatively safe, Louisa was not convinced.

  ‘I know you. You’ll be right there near the Front. In a field hospital.’

  He could not deny the probability. Louisa clung to him and whispered against his neck, ‘And I don’t even have a child to remember you by.’

  It was a great source of sadness to them both that they had not been blessed, as yet, with children.

  ‘When I come back, it’ll be different. I promise you.’ But Louisa would not be comforted.

  Philip battled in the days before his departure against saying goodbye to Meg. He couldn’t get her out of his mind and the thought that he might never see her again drove him finally, against his better judgement, to visit her.

  He decided to call at the shop so Percy would be there too. That way he would not be alone with her. But when he opened the door and stepped inside, the shop was empty. Percy must be here alone, Philip thought, moving towards the back room. But as he stepped inside it was Meg who raised her eyes from sewing buttons on an almost completed jacket.

  ‘Philip!’ she cried and jumped up at once. Scarcely realizing what he was doing, Philip held out his arms and she ran into them. He held her close, his face against her hair, breathing in the scent of her.

  ‘Oh, Philip, you’re going too, aren’t you? Jake’s gone and now you.’ She was weeping against him and then he was kissing her; her forehead, her eyes and lastly, her mouth. She returned his kiss, clinging to him, pressing herself against him.

  ‘Oh, Meg, Meg,’ he was saying over and over. His kisses, passionate and yet poignant, awakened something in her that Meg had not known existed. This was real desire, this was passion. What she was suddenly feeling was totally different to her affection for Percy. And oh, how different it would be to be made love to by this handsome man with his broad shoulders and lithe body.

  ‘Philip,’ she gasped and drew him into the room.

  What might have happened then had the shop doorbell not clanged warningly, Philip dared not think. Only later was he grateful that at that moment Percy had returned to the shop. Philip and Meg sprang apart, gazing breathlessly at each other until Meg smoothed her hair and opened the door.

  ‘Percy,’ she said with amazing calm, ‘I’m so glad you’re back. Dr Collins has called to say goodbye.’

  If the doctor appeared dazed and slightly incoherent, Percy put it down to the young man’s trepidation at what awaited him.

  ‘Good luck, Doctor.’ Percy shook Philip’s hand, noticing its clammy feel. ‘Come back to us safe and sound, won’t you?’

  Philip gulped and backed out of the shop. ‘Yes, yes, thank you. Er – thank you, goodbye.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Percy remarked, shaking his head sadly. ‘He’s terribly afraid of what might happen, isn’t he?’

  ‘Mm,’ Meg agreed absently. She was not thinking of what might happen t
o Philip at the Front, but of what might happen when he came home again.

  Jake had served almost a year in France when he received a wound that brought him back home. His knee was badly smashed and, whilst he would recover, he would forever walk with a stiff leg.

  Whilst she hated the fact that Jake had been wounded, Betsy was ecstatic that, for him, the war was over.

  ‘Did you see Dr Collins? Did he look after you in the hospital?’

  Jake smiled indulgently at Betsy’s naivety. ‘No, love, I didn’t see him. I ’spect he was in a different place to me.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was disappointed and then a worried frown creased her forehead. Now that her Jake was home, she could spare a thought for the safety of others. ‘I hope he’s all right.’

  Meg too was thankful to hear that Jake had survived. She longed to see him, but the past kept them apart. Instead, she thought dreamily of the time that Philip would come home. And then, suddenly, miraculously, on the same day that the United States entered the war, Philip too was invalided out of the army. He had been caught in a gas attack and was considered no longer fit enough to undertake the onerous duties of a field hospital doctor.

  ‘It’s not as bad as they’re making out,’ he told Louisa. ‘It’s just affected my lungs, but I hope they’ll improve – given time.’ He tried to smile.

  ‘Oh, Philip, you’re not going back, are you? You’ve done your bit. More than your bit.’

  He raised her hand to his lips. ‘No, my dear. I’m back home now, but I’ll soon be well enough to care for all my old patients here.’

  And whilst he would never be quite as fit as he had been before the war, Dr Collins was soon riding round the town again in his pony and trap and calling on all his old friends.

  But there was one place he did not dare to call. Though he thought of her often – every day – he did not call to see Meg.

  By October 1918 the worldwide influenza epidemic had reached Britain and South Monkford. Dr Collins, still not completely fit himself, worked day and night to care for his patients. And just when the worst appeared to be over in the town Percy Rodwell succumbed.