The Stony Path

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘And you never had that drink; are you sure you don’t want one?’ Polly was aware she was gabbling, but she didn’t want him to go, and suddenly that was all she could think of. ‘Betsy and I normally have a pot of tea about this time to warm us up before we go into the dairy. You could come through to the kitchen if you like.’

  He looked at her for a moment, his good-looking, clean-shaven face straight. She could see a tiny cut where he had nicked himself shaving that morning, and for no reason that she could explain, Polly felt her insides begin to tremble. It had been months and months since she had seen him, and right until this second she hadn’t realised how much his absence had mattered. ‘Do you want me to or are you just being polite?’ he asked quietly. ‘You must have plenty to do.’

  ‘Masses.’ She smiled at him. ‘But I’m not being polite. I wouldn’t be polite with you.’

  ‘Charming.’ And he smiled back. ‘In that case I’d love a cup of tea and a chat with Betsy.’

  Betsy liked Luke as much as she disliked his brother, and when she looked up from her pastry-making, her hands thick with pig’s fat and flour, her plump face lit up at the sight of him. Luke was soon ensconced at the kitchen table with a pint mug of tea and a plateful of singing hinnies, hot and fresh from the griddle and thick with butter. ‘You get on the other side of them, lad,’ she said fondly, bustling about like a mother hen with a lone chick. ‘’Bout time you called to see us, thought you’d forgotten the way.’

  ‘I’ve been busy, Betsy,’ said Luke through a mouthful of griddle cake.

  ‘Oh, aye?’ She glanced at Polly, who was sitting at the table quietly sipping her tea, as she said, ‘Busy, he says!’ and then, as her gaze returned to Luke, ‘So what’s kept you so busy you couldn’t spare a couple of hours to see old friends? A lass, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s not a lass, Betsy.’ Luke could feel himself colouring and he took a quick gulp of the hot tea before he said, ‘Union business if you want to know, mixed in with a bit of leg-work and such for the Labour Party.’

  ‘The Labour Party?’ Betsy winked at Polly over Luke’s head. ‘By, the lad’s into politics in a big way. We might have the next Keir Hardie sittin’ in our kitchen, or I should say Ramsay MacDonald now.’

  ‘I’d be proud to be linked with either of them, Betsy, and who knows what the future might hold,’ Luke returned with a grin at the plump little housekeeper. ‘No one guessed at the beginning of the century that the House of Lords would be forced to give up its claim that it was born to rule and accept the supremacy of the Commons, but it happened in August. Times are changing, and they can’t change quick enough for me, I tell you.’

  Polly leaned forward, her voice interested. ‘Really, Luke? You’d really like to take your interest in politics further?’

  She had beautiful eyes. He had never seen another lass with eyes like hers; they drew you, you felt you could swim in them. He blinked to break the spell as he said, in answer to Polly’s question, ‘There’s nothing I’d like better, but it’d take money and influence, lass, and I’m a bit short of both.’

  He had been smiling as he spoke, but Polly didn’t return the smile and her voice was serious as she said, ‘You can make it happen if you want, Keir Hardie did. You’ve always had a heart for the people and a natural grasp and interest in the unions and politics, and that’s more important than anything. Times are only changing because people like you have made them change.’

  They looked straight at each other, their gaze holding, as Betsy said from the stove, where she was turning a second batch of singing hinnies cooking on the griddle, ‘You can take that as fact, lad; you don’t get any butterin’ up, not with Polly. Tells you what she thinks, this lass.’ It said a lot for Betsy’s acceptance of Luke that her manner with her mistress was so relaxed, but this changed in the next moment when the kitchen door opened and Frederick stood framed in the aperture.

  Luke was aware of Polly stiffening, although she made no obvious movement. He rose to his feet, forcing his voice to be pleasant as he said, ‘Frederick. How are you?’ He watched the older man’s eyes move from him to Polly and then back again.

  ‘How am I? Same as always.’ Frederick was staring at Luke now through narrowed lids. The way they had been looking at each other when he’d opened the door . . . But no, no, it was impossible. They hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Luke for months and Polly rarely went into town. He’d have noticed before this if they were carrying on. Nevertheless, his lower jaw was thrust out as he said, ‘And what brings you this way in the middle of a working morning? Not on strike again, are you?’

  ‘Eva’s dying and she wanted to see Gran.’ It was Polly who spoke, and bluntly; her tone making it quite clear how she viewed her husband’s rudeness. ‘I said I’d call in tomorrow when you go to the bootmaker’s.’

  ‘What? Oh. Right, right.’ Frederick’s hair had begun to recede in the last five years, and now there were one or two strands at the front which stood up from his scalp like threads of wire. It gave him a faintly ridiculous air, and this was accentuated when he swayed once or twice on the heels of his boots and said ponderously, ‘I trust my womenfolk are looking after you all right, lad, although the kitchen is no place for a guest.’

  ‘Luke is not a guest. He’s family.’

  Family be blowed. There was no place in his family for agitators like Luke Blackett. He’d had some interesting chats with Arnold over the last months, and it was clear from what the man said that this brother had done all he could to lead the other into ruination. Because that was what the unions and such were all about. Out to ruin the country and create a state of anarchy. But Arnold had seen the light now; Frederick had set him straight all right. This one, though! Scum of the earth, Luke Blackett, and as arrogant as they came. The manly virility evident in the tall, dark miner was hitting Frederick on the raw, reminding him of his lack of prowess in the bed department and that it was due to his failure as a husband that he would be denied his son and heir. Perversely, he’d found he wanted a son all the more since he’d found he couldn’t rise to fathering one.

  ‘I’ve got to be going.’ Luke spoke solely to Polly and she answered him in like, saying, ‘I’ll walk with you to the lane,’ as she rose and reached for her shawl hanging on a wooden peg on the wall.

  ‘Goodbye, Betsy.’

  Betsy bobbed her head at Luke as she said, her voice quiet and subdued now, ‘I’ll give Emily your regards. She’s over at the cottages with Croft’s wife an’ bairns, they’ve all got the skitters.’

  ‘Goodbye, Frederick.’

  Frederick was looking at his wife, and he brought his gaze to the younger man seemingly with some effort before he nodded stiffly. And his voice was stiff too as he said, ‘Goodbye, Luke.’

  He had guessed. Luke could feel the heat in his neck spreading to his face as he left the kitchen. Frederick had guessed how he felt about Polly; he had seen the realisation in the other man’s eyes when he had first come into the kitchen. But what did it matter anyway? Polly was oblivious to it; whether by choice or because she genuinely didn’t recognise how he felt, he wasn’t sure, but the odds were the same. She was a married woman. Frederick’s wife.

  The air was cold enough to cut you in two as Luke opened the front door, and it made Polly, just behind him, pull her shawl more tightly round her shoulders. ‘Don’t come out, not in this.’ As a gust of icy wind almost lifted Luke’s cap, he turned to Polly. ‘I’ll perhaps see you tomorrow when you visit Eva.’

  She stared at him, and then made herself ask the question that had been at the back of her mind since he had first stated the purpose of his visit. ‘Is there any way that Michael could be traced and told about his mother? I feel he ought to know.’

  Luke’s expression didn’t change and his voice was steady and flat as he said, ‘That’s been taken care of. Apparently Michael informed Dr Henderson as to his whereabouts some years ago with a request that in an emergency he b
e informed. I only found this out when Henderson called to see Eva yesterday.’

  ‘And the doctor’s told him?’

  ‘So I understand.’

  Polly’s heart was thudding. So Michael was alive and well, although she had always known that deep inside. She would have felt it if it was otherwise, she knew she would. How would she feel if she saw him again? And then she checked herself instantly. The chances of that were very remote. She wouldn’t be attending her aunt’s funeral, it was better that way for everyone. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll come tomorrow then.’

  ‘Aye, all right. If I’m at work Elsie will likely let you in. Eva’s adamant she doesn’t want to go into hospital and the doctor said there’s no real need as far as he can see, her just having wasted away. She hasn’t really eaten in the last five years, not properly. I think she always intended to follow your father. You could say she died the day he did.’

  Polly stared at him. That was shocking, but she believed it, having seen how obsessively unbalanced Eva was about her brother that terrible birthday.

  ‘I’m not saying it was right, Polly, so don’t get me wrong, but there’s been times I’ve thought there’s not many men who get to be loved like Henry was.’

  ‘Luke!’ Now she was really shocked. And yet . . . yes, she could see what he meant. She had lived with a man for five years who was incapable of that emotion – either physically or emotionally – and it was a constant fight to believe she wasn’t worthless and unattractive and everything else Frederick’s rejection of her seemed to say. But she did fight it, and she would continue to do so, because it wasn’t her who was the emotional cripple. She’d lost count of how many times she had tried to reach out to Frederick in the very early days of their marriage, before she had understood that there was something missing in him, something basic and essential. So, aye, she could see that to be loved unreservedly and passionately must be a wonderful thing. A precious thing. But not like Eva and her father. Not ever like that.

  ‘I’ll let you know . . . when it happens.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She didn’t want him to go. Oh, how she didn’t want him to go. Which was crazy, crazy and wrong. In fact, it was better he went straight away, this second, and she wouldn’t walk with him to the lane. A quiver passed over her face but she stood stiff and straight as she watched Luke depart without another word of farewell, and she had shut the door before he was out of sight.

  The sky was so low and heavy with the threatened snow that Polly felt it was pressing down just above their heads as the horse and trap clip-clopped its way into Bishopswearmouth the next morning.

  Frederick had said little on the ride from the farm, but then that wasn’t unusual; he could go for days, weeks, without having a proper conversation with her, although he and her mother always seemed to have plenty to say to each other. Polly glanced at him now out of the corner of her eye. He was dressed smartly as befitted a visit into the town, his fine cloth suit and waistcoat hidden by the thick worsted overcoat and bowler hat, and his feet shod in the best leather boots D. M. Ward of 103 High Street West had been able to make the year before. He was on his way to see about a new pair of riding boots today and she knew he wouldn’t stint on the cost. He was vain about what he wore, Frederick, and in the same way he always insisted she was well dressed when she left the farmhouse – wouldn’t it reflect on him otherwise?

  Polly’s long midnight-blue coat was an elegant one, and warm, the shoulder cape edged with fur, as was the matching hat. Her fine woollen gloves, neat boots and leather purse were all equally good quality, and she reflected now, as she brought her eyes forward again, that anyone seeing the pair of them would think they were a prosperous and happily married couple who had every reason to be satisfied with life. Which just showed how deceptive appearances could be.

  It was just after midday when Polly alighted from the horse and trap on the Bishopwearmouth end of Wearmouth Bridge. She hadn’t demurred when Frederick had suggested dropping her there rather than taking her across the bridge and into North Bridge Street, beyond which, to the left, was Southwick Road. He was being awkward, she knew that, because he hadn’t liked Luke calling at Stone Farm the day before, but a brisk fifteen-minute walk to prepare herself for facing her aunt was just what she needed. Frederick had used the excuse that the horse didn’t like crossing the bridge for not taking her to her aunt’s door, and for the same reason he arranged to meet her where he had dropped her at three o’clock, after he had finished his business and had lunch at his gentlemen’s club in Fawcett Street.

  Polly stood for a moment watching the horse and trap as it disappeared down Bridge Street towards High Street West, and then with no further ado she turned and walked over the cobbled road with its tramlines to the wide pavement, passing a hawker with his hand-held cart as she did so. He smiled at her, touching his flat cap for a second with one hand, which caused his cart to wobble precariously, and she smiled back before continuing on her way. There were nice people in the world, lots of them, like that tinker man back there, she told herself silently. He had smiled for no reason other than that he wanted to. She had used to think she would never be able to bear living anywhere other than in the country on a farm, but lately she had realised this wasn’t so. It was people who mattered more than a place. She’d live on the top of a slack heap with Luke.

  The thought, coming from nowhere as it did, caused her to stop stock still so that the young mother behind her, who was pushing a large perambulator containing two wailing infants of indeterminate sex, narrowly missed bumping into her. ‘Eee, I’m sorry, lass.’ The young woman didn’t look old enough to have one child, let alone the two in the baby carriage and the toddler of three or four holding on to the handle. ‘They’re wantin’ their dinner.’

  Polly smiled as she said, ‘No, it was my fault,’ and as she let the harassed quartet pass, the little girl smiled back a shy, sweet look that wrenched Polly’s heart. She so wanted a bairn but it seemed impossible, and sometimes the pain was overwhelming. She avoided dwelling on it, but she knew Frederick had been relieved when the bolster had gone into place. Much as he wanted a son and heir, the procuring of one had caused him too much embarrassment and unpleasantness. He was a man who should never have married. That thought was inexorably linked with the one which had caused her to stop in the first place, and now she muttered softly, ‘Enough, enough of that,’ before continuing to walk on purposefully. This wasn’t a time to be thinking about bairns or anything else.

  When she reached the corner of Southwick Road, Polly paused for a moment. The noise, which had diminished a little once she had passed over Wearmouth Bridge and reached Monkwearmouth Station, had picked up again, courtesy of Wearmouth Colliery on the one side and, to the right of her, towards Newcastle Road, the Wearmouth foundry, saw mills and goods yard. Beyond them, on the other side of Portobello Lane, was more industry in the form of hemp and wire rope works, iron and steel works, brick works and more foundries, and the overall smell and noise was something the residents of these streets took for granted.

  How had her Aunt Eva felt when, as a young bride, Nathaniel had brought her here after the peace and quiet of the farm? For the first time since she had learned of the liaison with her father, Polly felt a rush of sympathy for her aunt. Her father had always said it was his sister who had farming in her blood; Eva must have thought she was being thrown into the bowels of hell. Polly glanced about her one more time and then walked on down Southwick Road.

  It wasn’t Elsie Appleby or even Luke who opened the door. For a second all Polly could do was stare, open-mouthed, at the tall figure of the young priest in front of her, and then she said on a whisper, ‘Michael. Michael?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me, Polly.’ It was Michael’s voice coming out of this stranger who looked like him, this man in priest’s garb. Still Polly couldn’t move. He had grown. He must be as tall as Luke now, although he was still thin and slender in build. And he looked so much like their father. Why had she never notice
d it before, when they were young? But then it wasn’t unusual for nephews to resemble their uncles, so she wouldn’t have thought twice about it, him supposedly being her cousin. But he was her brother. This man standing in front of her was her half-brother, and he was as far removed from the old Michael as it was possible to be. The ache in her heart was threatening to overwhelm her, and then Michael said, ‘Come in, Poll, it’s freezing out there,’ and some of the strangeness vanished.

  He reached out his hand and drew her up the step and over the threshold, closing the front door and ushering her in front of him as he said, ‘Come into the kitchen, it’s warmer in there.’

  He was a priest. A priest. Polly just couldn’t take it in. And her face must have given her away, because Michael said, ‘I know this must be something of a shock to you,’ as he gestured at his clothing.