The Stony Path

by Rita Bradshaw

  Polly and Michael stared at each other. They both knew Eva had gone into unconsciousness cursing her family, and it was chilling. And then Polly mentally shook herself, offering the doctor and Michael a cup of tea and a shive of Elsie Appleby’s seed cake she had found in the pantry.

  The doctor didn’t stay long, and once he had gone – promising to return in the morning – Polly could see Michael was very upset. And so she stayed talking to him by the fire, and after a little while they found the talking was easier and they could even reminisce about some of the good times from their childhood.

  ‘Why did you marry Frederick, Poll?’

  She had just realised three o’clock had come and gone and had jumped up, grabbing her coat and hat, but now she turned to face Michael, the coat limp in her hands. She could prevaricate, give an evasive answer that was no answer at all, but as she looked into the face of this dear brother she knew she owed him the truth. ‘There was nothing else I could do if I wanted to keep Gran and Grandda out of the workhouse,’ she said quietly. And then she explained it all – the debts, the struggle to keep the family afloat and the final blow on the day of the storm.

  Michael listened, and he found it difficult to keep the bitterness out of his voice when he said, ‘So he blackmailed you into it.’

  ‘It was my decision, Michael.’

  Maybe. Michael looked into the great blue eyes, and then he asked the question Luke had asked the day before. ‘Are you happy with him?’

  Again she didn’t beat about the bush. ‘No.’ And somehow she found she could talk to him about the true state of affairs between herself and Frederick in a way she could never have done with Luke. Which was strange really, she thought to herself after she had finished telling Michael all of it. ‘I must go.’ He had listened well, he’d make a good priest. ‘I shan’t make the bridge where I’m meeting Frederick before half past now.’

  He wanted to take her into his arms. He didn’t think he had ever wanted anything quite so much, especially after what she had revealed about her husband. Which was why he mustn’t touch her. ‘Goodbye, Polly.’

  ‘Shall . . . shall I see you again? Will you come back here after . . .’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’ He would want her until the day he died and beyond.

  ‘No.’ She nodded slowly and then touched his arm, her manner tentative as she said, ‘I don’t know if I should say this, but you will always be part of my life, Michael. You’re my brother, my only brother, and I love you.’ Her left hand unconsciously touched his ring, which she still wore on the third finger of her right hand.

  He had noticed it there earlier and it had touched him more than any words could have done, and now it took all his will power to answer quietly, ‘And I you, Polly. As my dear sister.’

  She smiled at him – a sweet smile – but she didn’t reach up to kiss him goodbye, for which he was eternally grateful. And then she was buttoning her coat and adjusting the cape on her shoulders and they were at the front door.

  Polly felt the lump in her throat become constricting as she looked into Michael’s face. It was probably for the last time, and for a moment she felt she couldn’t bear to say goodbye. She mustn’t cry. He had enough to bear with his mother dying, she told herself silently, forcing herself to say steadily, as a gust of wind nearly took her hat off, ‘Don’t stand on the doorstep, it’s beginning to snow again. Tell Luke I’m sorry I missed him, and that we’d appreciate knowing at the farm when . . . when it happens.’

  Michael nodded. ‘Luke’s on the foreshift today, I thought he would be home before now.’ What were they doing talking about Luke and shifts or anything else but what really mattered? Michael asked himself desperately. She was going, and these few hours were going to have to last him a lifetime.

  ‘Goodbye, Michael.’ Polly stepped down into the street as she spoke, turning and smiling at him one last time.

  ‘Goodbye, Poll.’ He couldn’t prolong this, not without spoiling everything and begging her not to go.

  Michael shut the door as Polly began walking away, sinking immediately to his knees with a groan that came from the depths of him as he swayed back and forth, his arms crossed against his waist. And it wasn’t until he tasted salt on his lips a minute or so later that he even realised the tears were streaming down his face.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The temperature seemed to have dropped a few degrees since midday, and there were flakes of snow blowing in the wind as Polly hurried along Southwick Road. As she passed the entrance to the Wearmouth Colliery she was aware that there were several groups of miners standing talking and others leaving after their shift, but she didn’t look in their direction. She couldn’t have coped with seeing Luke right now, besides which – and now she had left Michael, this was a very real worry – she didn’t know if Frederick would be waiting for her, the mood he had been in that morning. But he wouldn’t leave her to walk home, she reassured herself as she passed the smithy and turned into North Bridge Street. Not even Frederick would do that.

  When she reached Bridge Dock she was craning her neck to see over the bridge, the smell of industrial smoke heavy in the cold air. A dredger and a hopper were in the middle of the river, with other smaller vessels fore and aft, but it wasn’t until Polly reached the south side of the bridge, near the bottle works at Bishopwearmouth Panns, that she realised there was no horse and trap waiting for her.

  How could he! She stood for a moment or two biting her lip as she stared down Bridge Street, and then she nearly jumped out of her skin as a voice just behind her said, ‘And what’s the lady of the manor doing in this neck of the woods?’

  ‘Arnold.’ She stared into the black face in which the mouth and eyes showed in stark contrast to the coal dust. ‘You startled me.’

  ‘Been to see Eva?’

  His cap was set at a jaunty angle and it matched the tone of his voice, and when Polly said, ‘Yes, aye, yes, I have,’ he nodded once. ‘Aye, I thought so when I saw you pass the colliery gates. I was going there meself once the shift ended, but we had a meeting – union business.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘You know Luke’s the representative now?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Rising star, our Luke. No one can argue the toss like my little brother.’

  It wasn’t meant to be laudatory, and as his eyes ran all over her Polly forced herself to show no reaction at all, keeping her voice cool and even as she said, ‘If you’re going to see Eva, haven’t you come in the wrong direction?’

  Cocky little baggage. She’d got more airs and graces than a duchess. ‘Aye, well, I saw you scurrying past and wondered what was what,’ Arnold said with elaborate casualness. ‘How are you getting back to the farm?’

  Polly hesitated just a fraction too long before she said, ‘With Frederick. I . . . I’m meeting him.’

  ‘Oh, aye? Where?’

  ‘In Fawcett Street.’

  ‘I’ll walk along with you. I want a word with him . . . about Ruth.’

  Was he going to ask for her? Polly stared into the mean black eyes as she said quickly, ‘I’m going shopping first; besides which, I wouldn’t want to delay you. Eva was quite poorly when I left.’

  Arnold nodded sagely. There was something going on here, and if he wasn’t far wrong she wasn’t meeting Frederick at all. Was she meeting someone else, or was it simply that she didn’t want to be seen with him? He looked into the beautiful face framed by the soft fur of her hat and felt his body stir. Had them all dangling on a string, Polly did, damn her. And what was she when all was said and done? A bit farmer’s daughter, and one who’d been caught sleeping with his own sister. Polly had nothing to be uppity about, not with her heritage. But he’d see his day with her; oh, aye, he would. He’d made himself that promise years ago and put up with that silly halfwit of a sister of hers in order to keep a foot in the door.

  He took a step nearer to her, and as he saw the slight recoil she didn’t quite ma
nage to hide, his eyes narrowed, but his voice was offhand as he said, ‘Right you are, lass. Well, I’m in lodgings round here, so I might as well nip back and change afore I go to see Eva.’

  Polly nodded, relieved he wasn’t going to be awkward. ‘Goodbye, then.’ She turned quickly, walking off at a smart pace down Bridge Street, and it wasn’t until she reached the intersection with High Street West that she glanced behind her. Arnold was nowhere to be seen, and after searching the pavements for some moments she let out a deep sigh of relief. He had gone. She put her hand to her racing heart and breathed deeply. Now all she had to worry about was getting home before the threatened snow hit. How could Frederick have gone without her, and what on earth would he say to the others back at the farmhouse to explain his actions? She would never forgive him for this, never.

  There were more fat flakes of snow blowing in the wind now, and as Polly crossed the road into Fawcett Street the sky was low and heavy; the pavements crowded with bustling shoppers anxious to get home to the warm before the weather worsened.

  Should she wait for a tram? And then she answered herself almost immediately as one drew away some yards in front of her. No, no, she wouldn’t. It would probably be ten minutes or so until the next one, and then it would only take her part of the way home. She was warmly dressed, and a brisk walk wouldn’t do her any harm. If she stepped out she could be back at the farm before it was really dark. Having decided what she was going to do, she lifted up her head, pulled her hat more firmly over her ears and set off at a smart rate for the outskirts of the town without looking back. Which was her first mistake.

  When Luke had seen Polly hurrying past the colliery yard his first reaction – to call her name – had been quickly checked. He was in his working clothes and as black as the ace of spades, which couldn’t have been more of a contrast to Frederick’s tweeds and leather boots. She was gone in an instant, but then he noticed Arnold detach himself from a group of the men who were standing about talking after the union meeting and disappear, not in the direction of his old home, as Luke would have expected – Arnold having promised he’d look in on Eva after the shift – but southwards, towards North Bridge Street.

  It was instinctual to follow his brother, and when it became obvious that Arnold, in turn, was tailing the slender, blue-coated figure in front of them both, Luke’s inherent distrust of his sibling quickened his footsteps, but still he didn’t make himself known. He felt slightly ridiculous as the three of them walked on, but then Polly was crossing the bridge and Luke, like Polly, was straining his eyes for Frederick’s horse and trap.

  And then Polly stopped and he watched Arnold catch her up and the pair of them begin to talk, and he felt even more foolish as he hovered in the middle of the bridge pretending to look at the ships below while he kept an eye on the couple in front of him.

  He must look a right Charlie. A three-masted sailing ship was being towed by a tugboat in the distance as he feigned an interest in the river, but within moments Polly and Arnold had parted – Polly walking on down Bridge Street in the direction of Fawcett Street and Arnold turning right into Matloor Street.

  Of course – Polly must be meeting Frederick at his gentlemen’s club in Fawcett Street. The penny suddenly dropped. Frederick had rammed his damn club down their throats enough on those Sunday afternoons long ago; his membership there, which involved rubbing shoulders with many of the leading lights of the town, was very important to Polly’s husband. But where was Arnold going? Luke frowned to himself as he continued to stand on the bridge, a few desultory snowflakes whirling and dancing in the bitterly cold air. His brother had said he was going to come and pay his respects to Eva and have a word with Michael once the shift had finished, and he couldn’t be going to his lodgings – Luke knew the room Arnold rented was in a house in Barrington Street, at the back of St Peter’s graveyard in Monkwearmouth. Still, it was none of his business. He wasn’t his brother’s keeper. He’d better get back home; Michael would be wondering what had happened to everyone, and he’d probably had more than enough of his mother by now, and Elsie Appleby oohing and ahhing over him.

  Luke smiled to himself as he turned back the way he had come. Elsie had actually genuflected at her first sight of Michael the night before, and he was sure that Eva – as Michael’s mother – had immediately achieved a status just a little lower than the Virgin Mary in Elsie’s devout Catholic eyes.

  They had talked half the night, he and Michael. Luke walked swiftly now, anxious to get home and wash the pit out of his skin and hair. Funny really, but Michael had always been more his brother than Arnold could ever be, even though there was no blood tie between them and in spite of knowing that Michael held Polly’s heart. He was glad he had seen him again, although his shock – like Elsie’s – had been considerable when he’d first opened the door to a young priest with Michael’s face.

  He passed Monkwearmouth Station and the row of houses beyond, but it was as he reached the school on the comer and a tumble of children came spilling out that his footsteps slowed. So many raggedy-arsed little nippers, he thought bleakly. When were times going to change? Half of them were bandy-legged with rickets, their stick legs thrust into broken-down boots that were several sizes too large, having been passed down from an older brother or sister. Back-to-back hovels with one living room, one bedroom and a damp, dark cellar for families of fourteen and more was no way to live, and that was what a good number of these bairns would be going home to. Aye, and on their way some of them would be looking for an orange box or wet-fish box that a kind shopkeeper would leave outside to give a family free fuel for a night.

  Luke breathed in deeply, the rage which always accompanied the feeling of social injustice he felt at times such as these making his stomach knot.

  He was still thinking of the children he’d seen when he reached home, Michael meeting him at the kitchen door. ‘Arnold not with you?’ Michael asked quietly.

  ‘He’ll be here shortly, no doubt.’ As Michael mentioned his brother’s name Luke felt the same sense of unease he’d felt earlier in the colliery yard, and then he told himself not to be daft. Polly was all right – she was with Frederick. And then, looking at Michael’s face, Luke said, ‘What is it? Is she worse?’

  ‘Aye, a coma the doctor said, but I can’t help feeling it’s one of her own making. Polly was here and my mother went for her; I think the bitterness of years was vented on Polly’s head,’ Michael said soberly. ‘You just missed her, she’s gone to meet Frederick.’

  Luke nodded, thrusting the kettle into the glow of the fire in the range as he said, ‘I’ll have a quick wash-down and then look in on Eva, although I doubt there’s anything anyone can do.’

  ‘There never was, Luke.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right there, man.’

  They looked at each other for a long moment before Luke turned away.

  Once he had filled the tin bath in the scullery and washed the black coal dust out of the pores of his skin and his hair – no easy task with the portion of hard, marble-veined soap – Luke dressed quickly in clean clothes. It was something Nathaniel had always done immediately on returning from the pit, and he and Arnold had followed suit. ‘You’ll come back mucky but that’s no excuse for wallowin’ in it like some do,’ his father had said to them both on their first days down the pit. ‘We’re men, not pigs, an’ don’t you forget it, son.’

  After banging his heavy pit clothes against the wall in the backyard to get the thick of the dirt off, Luke cleaned his boots and left the pile to one side of the boiler in the washhouse ready to put on in the morning. They would be cold and slightly damp, but Eva had never allowed any of them to bring their working clothes into the house once they had stripped off, and old habits died hard.

  Once back in the kitchen, he accepted the mug of tea Michael handed him, glancing at the clock on the dresser as he said, ‘Arnold’s taking his time. I saw him take off over the bridge earlier, so I reckon he’s got a bit of business in Bishopwe
armouth.’

  They both knew Arnold’s weakness for dabbling in the odd items that fell off the back of a lorry, and he’d got more than one pal who worked at the docks.

  ‘Oh, aye? You didn’t see Polly there? She was meeting Frederick at the bridge.’

  ‘At the bridge?’ Luke looked up sharply. ‘Are you sure?’

  Michael nodded. ‘She left in something of a hurry, she was late and—’

  He found he was talking to thin air. Luke had already left the house at a run, grabbing his coat and cap as he flew out into the street and set off in the direction of Wearmouth Bridge.

  Something was wrong, something was very wrong here. He had felt it earlier but ignored his gut instinct, Luke told himself as he half ran, half walked the pavements, which were already covered in a thin white layer of snow.

  It was now gone four o’clock, and as Luke reached the bridge the streets were still crowded, but once through the main part of Bishopwearmouth town they began to empty rapidly. Luke passed Mowbray Park and carried on down Burdon Road until he came to the comer of Christ Church, whereupon he turned right towards Tunstall Vale and Tunstall Road. It was the most direct route to Stone Farm and one he had walked many a time, but now his breath was tearing his lungs and he had to stop a moment and take deep pulls of air before again running on.