by Pam Weaver
Theirs was an amicable arrangement. She delivered her produce and Alf Brennan produced a bottle: no names, no questions asked. It wasn’t as if she was overdoing it. In truth she’d broken a life-long pledge of temperance but she was a grown-up now and knew how to spoon out the spirit, carefully sipping it slowly. It was no different from Doc Murray’s pills but this medicine worked, and it was only for a while, until she felt better. Something had to see her through this terrible time.
No one knew her here, deals were strictly tit for tat, but she brought extra this week so that if she missed a trip then she needn’t be without her medicine up the dale.
She had hated the smell of it at first. It took her back to Dad’s breath, but now she found it strangely comforting. At first she would shut her eyes and gulp, but now she could sip it and not squirm. She didn’t want to enjoy the taste. That might make her make a habit of it and end up like Dad with his ‘wee drams’. Oh, no! That’d never do, but it was her little secret and it dulled the edge of her pain, her reward at the end of a tough day. It helped her sleep without dreaming.
It wasn’t as if she was wasting anyone’s coupons or stealing cash. It was her way of staying strong for Jack, of forgetting Sylvie’s broken body. No one could deny her such comfort when her husband was tucked up safe in hospital, drugged to the eyeballs…
‘I’ll take two this week,’ she smiled at the grocer. ‘In fact, three might be better.’ It was always a relief to have those bottles tucked down in her basket as she sat on the train heading north. It helped her face the going back to Windebank and the walk home.
‘Sorry, love, two’s all I can manage. I’ve got regulars I can’t disappoint, but if you come down on Saturday I’ll see what I can do. I’m expecting another supply…Oh, and if you could bring some bacon too…’
She scurried out to the street on edge. Coming out of the asylum always made her knees buckle. She needed a pick-me-up just to get through the gate. Perhaps she ought to try somewhere else or, better still, save her supplies and wait until the Golden Lion opened and have a little nip to warm her through for the journey. She could catch the bus home. The world wouldn’t miss her for another hour or two. No one would begrudge her a little free time.
To step over the threshold of a public house on her own took some doing. She breezed in and said she was freezing and could she have a nip to keep out the cold. The woman at the bar, all dolled up, looked her up and down with suspicion. There was only one sort of woman who went in a pub alone and that was to pick up men. She eyed her thick tweed suit and felt hat, her sensible brogues. There was no mistaking Mirren for a lady of the night.
Soon she popped in every week and they passed pleasantries and she told them she was visiting a sick aunt in the asylum and the chaps around looked at her with pity and bought her a round. Her presence was now fully understood. ‘Wouldn’t catch me in one of them places,’ was the general opinion.
The pub was cosy and warm and the fug of stale ale and cigarettes, soot and sawdust no longer bothered her. She chatted to the regulars and watched the old men play dominoes. She gave accounts of the imaginary progress of her sick aunt. Here she felt safe among chums, who took her at face value: just a farmer’s wife down from the dale to shop and do good. There was nothing wrong in that and yet…
Sometimes as the nights grew darker and colder it got harder to face that lonely trek on the last bus home, walking through the copse in the dark, the wind in her face, the look on Ben’s face. That ‘Where’ve you been till this hour?’ sort of look.
She got into the habit of telling tales about not wanting to leave Jack, doing shopping for him, popping back, all lies. She said she’d eaten in a café so no need to heat up any tea, and by the way she was going to pop back on Saturday to give Jack a surprise.
Sometimes Mirren didn’t recognise herself, her brash lies and skin-deep answers, quick to snap at Ben if he looked put out. It is easy to lie when you are trusted, she noted with concern.
‘I was hoping to get off early on Saturday. I’m taking Lorna to the pictures,’ he said.
‘I’m not stopping you. Uncle Tom’ll cover with Dieter, and I’ll do the morning milking,’ she offered. ‘So it’s back on with you two then? About time,’ she smiled, but as she climbed the stairs she felt put out and jumpy that Ben was getting his life together. He’d be leaving them soon. It didn’t take long for him to forget his goddaughter.
Ben and Lorna, Jack in hospital, Tom and Florrie had each other. Who was there for her?
She unpacked the bottles carefully, tucking them deep into her wardrobe and shoving the empties into her bottom drawer. It was time for her medicine, a big swig. She wanted to sleep tonight. It was going to be a long trek until Saturday.
By Friday night she was down to the last dregs of the second bottle. The medicine was not working as well as it used to for she was awake all night watching the dawn creep through the gap in the curtains. She rose early and went in search of their secret hoard of bacon flitches. How was she going to cut off a hunk and get it out of the farm in her basket? She would need a suitcase, but Jack might need some fresh clothes. No one would suspect anything. They’d be glad he was up and about and dressed. It would mean he was soon coming home. The thought of his return made her sweat.
Ben sat through Brief Encounter holding Lorna’s hand and trying not to yawn. It was a woman’s film about a housewife and a doctor having an affair in some small town. He perked up when he recognised Carnforth station in the shot, recognising the tunnel and the platform, and the music wasn’t bad. Lorna was weeping buckets.
‘Wasn’t it sad? They were made for each other but she had to go back to her real life and do her duty…’
He patted her on the hand and looked at his watch. They might catch the fish-and-chip shop open on the way back. It was time he stepped up this on-and-off romance, give her a bit of attention. He’d never kissed a girl properly before, or made love, for that matter. Lorna was not the sort of girl to experiment on either. He couldn’t lead her on without it being serious. She was a straightforward Yorkshire girl, a no-nonsense sort with a kind heart. He could do far worse than stick with her but deep inside, it was Mirren’s lips he wanted to kiss, her body he wanted to hold. God help him if he was just a one-girl man. He was doomed.
How could he go on fooling himself that all this work at World’s End was anything other than a chance to pretend that he would be sharing it with her himself? He was a right muggins.
Mirren would stick with Jack, like it or not. Lately she was so unreliable in the mornings he’d begun to think she was sickening for something. Mirren–all he ever thought about was her when it should be Lorna on his mind.
They walked up the high road through the village, dawdling and chatting while he plucked up the courage to make a move. He could see her eager, her eyes sparkling with expectation. Be a man and get it over with, he thought as he reached for the gate to open it but a shout from the post office house stopped him in his tracks.
‘Ben? Is that you? You’ve saved me a right hike. ’A’ve just had Sowerby missus on the phone. She’s stuck in Scarperton, daft bugger missed the last train. She asked me to say she’ll not be fit in the morning. Poor lass, and her having to go all that way to visit Jack. She didn’t want you to be worried.’
‘Thanks, Harold.’ Ben waved his hand at the postmaster. ‘I’ll have to go, Lorna. You heard the gist of it. I can’t have her walking in the dark. There’s tramps and deserters on the run. Daft happorth, visiting finished hours ago. What’s she been up to? You women and the pictures…all that romancing…’
‘Well, we don’t get much in these parts, Reuben Yewell,’ she snapped at him.
‘What’s that supposed to mean? I took you out,’ he said, puzzled.
‘I might as well have gone myself, the interest you took. You were asleep in five minutes.’
‘I was up at the crack of dawn,’ he offered, knowing it was true.
‘Did madam not surf
ace again? They say she’s a right lady of leisure, swanning round Scarperton, twice a week. I thought you farmers were having a rough time? She’s been seen going in the Golden Lion of a night, and on market day,’ Lorna added.
‘Don’t be daft. Mirren’s teetotal and always has been,’ he snapped back.
‘That’s not what I heard,’ she sneered. ‘Bold as brass through the front door.’
‘I thought she was your friend,’ he said, feeling his pulse racing at this news. ‘After what she’s been through, I’d not begrudge her a port and lemon or two…Who’s been spreading this nonsense?’
‘No one you know, but it’s true so you’d better get off and rescue the damsel in distress before she wears out her precious shoe leather.’
This was a side to Lorna he didn’t like. ‘You can come with me if you like,’ he offered.
‘What, and play gooseberry? I’m not blind. Everyone knows you slaver over her like a puppy. I’m not playing second fiddle to her tune. Go on, beat it!’
‘Oh, Lorna,’ Ben stuttered, not knowing what to say. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve spoilt your evening. I’ll make it up to you.’
‘No you won’t. I’m sick of excuses, excuses. If it’s not the farm, it’s that ruin you’re restoring.’
‘Who told you about that?’
‘Does it matter? Everyone knows everyone else’s business in Windebank. I’m sorry about what happened to Jack and Mirren, we all are, but it’s about time they pulled themselves together and didn’t expect you to pick up the crumbs under their table,’ she said, looking up at him with tears in her eyes.
‘If that’s how you feel…’ Ben sighed, suddenly bone weary.
‘Yes it is, and the sad thing is you’ve never noticed how I felt before and never will while yon girl from World’s End is on the loose. Watch it, Ben, you may get more than you bargain for meddling with those two. Oil and water don’t mix, or should I say, whisky and wine,’ she said, and with that warning she swung through the gate, put her key into the front door and slammed it behind her.
Ben drove the truck slowly with the pinwheel headlights on, peering into the darkness, trying to spot a glimpse of Mirren on the road. Surely she was not trying to thumb a lift on the main road? How could she think of such a thing unless she was not right in the head? Surely not?
He spotted her three miles out of Scarperton, barefoot, carrying her shoes and basket as if she was off to market, her headscarf was round her head with her hat plonked on top.
‘Get in!’ he shouted, leaning across the seat. ‘What the hell are you doing at this time of night? Do you want to get run over?’
‘I’m fine,’ she smiled. ‘The fresh air has done me good. I went to the pictures and fell asleep through the second house.’ She smiled sweetly, looking at the road ahead, not at him and he knew she lied.
‘What did you see?’ he snapped, knowing it would be Brief Encounter on at the Plaza too.
‘Oh, I don’t know, some cowboy so boring I dozed off. The usherette woke me up. It’s been a long day,’ she sighed.
‘Don’t tell me lies. You’ve been in the pub, drinking.’
‘Why, Ben, what a cruel thing to say. You know I don’t drink. I’d never go in one of those places,’ she replied without a shake in her voice.
‘So how come you’ve been seen going in the Golden Lion, regular as clockwork?’ His voice was cracked with fury.
‘I just popped in to sell them some eggs, didn’t I tell you? I’ve got quite a little round going.’ She had an excuse for everything.
‘Oh, you’ve had a round or two, I can smell it on your breath. I didn’t come up the Wharfe on a biscuit tin. You stink of smoke and there’s whisky on your breath, not just on your clothes.’
‘I had just the one to tide me over. Jack’s visits are such a strain and I was frozen. It seemed like a good idea. No harm done…’ Her excuses drained away.
‘Pull the other one, Mirren. I wasn’t born yesterday, you must be tipsy to be taking a risk like this,’ he said. His hands were gripping the wheel. He wanted to shake her.
‘Oh, shut up! Don’t be so po-faced. You sound like my Sunday school teacher. Did little Miss Lorna give you the push? Have I spoiled your evening?’
‘Mirren, this isn’t you talking. If you’re in trouble you only have to talk to me about it, not bottle things up and drink it. Nothing good comes out of those sort of bottles. How many times’ve you told me? It’s a mug’s game,’ he pleaded.
‘Oh, but it does, you’re wrong. It’s only medicine. It calms me down and gets me to sleep and makes me forget. There’s no harm in a nip or two and I’m not bothering anyone else,’ she said with her arms folded in defiance or defence–he wasn’t sure which.
‘But you bother me, wasting petrol coming to find you. Don’t you think I’d rather be doing something else than ferreting around looking for you?’
‘I didn’t ask you to come. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Is that enough? Now shut up and let me sleep.’
What else could he say? Lorna was right. The gossip was true. He was too stunned by her casualness, her lies to argue. She was drunk enough to be beyond reach and soon she was snoring away, flopping her head on the side window all the way home.
Ben drew up in the yard, lifted her out of the truck and carried her upstairs. No one was up. He took off her stockings, loosened her jacket and blouse. She looked so peaceful, lying there. He felt such a desire rise up but he daren’t do anything. How he longed to hold her close and take this terrible pain away from her, the pain she was trying to blot out. If she had his love wrapped around her, there would be no need for whisky or booze. They would fight the demons together.
Mirren woke with a fuzzy head and a tongue like cork matting. The room spun around her and she lifted herself slowly. How had she got back home? Her clothes were crumpled up, her stockings were in tatters on the chair. She could recall going into the pub and chatting to Monica, the barmaid. Then they were chucked out at closing time and the station was shuttered. How had she managed to get back here?
There was the long black road, headlamps, a stretch of stars torching her path. It was like a jigsaw all broken up with a few corners filled in. There was an argument and a man’s voice…
Her watch said ten o’clock in the morning. Hellfire, she’d missed morning milking again and it was Sunday. There’d be ructions. Time to pull off her suit and girdle, throw on her farm stuff. Aiming for the door, she banged her shins. Blood and sand! I’m in for it, she thought.
She crept down the grand stairs slowly, not wanting to trip. Florrie was bustling about singing hymn tunes in her best frock. Since Sylvia died she’d taken to chapel big time and would be off to the service.
‘You’re up then? Ben said you were unwell and he had to fetch you…a bit of a tummy upset, was it? How’s Jack?’ No further questions so all was well there then.
‘He’s fine. The treatment is making him remember stuff,’ she smiled. Jack was slowly coming round–well, a version of Jack, not the one she used to know; a bit like herself. She was forgetting the Mirren she used to be. ‘It was just a gippy tummy but I’m fine now. I’d better get cracking. I owe Ben a favour. Is he doing his rounds?’
‘No, he’s up the tops, as usual. I’m glad you’re feeling better. He said you were right poorly in the night. Would you like to go to chapel?’
Mirren shook her head and patted her stomach. ‘No, I daren’t risk it,’ she lied. All she could think about was making sure Ben hadn’t spilled the beans. She must apologise to him and put things right, but first there was another thing she must do.
She crept back up the dark oak staircase to her room and rummaged in her basket, just in case he’d spotted her medicine. There was nothing there and she felt panic rising. She rifled through her wardrobe and the drawer of empties, then her knicker drawer–all her private places–but there was nothing and she began to shake.
Then she remembered the last resort, the tin box under her bed. Opening the t
in she grabbed the spare bottle but not before she saw Sylvia’s face in that photograph looking up, scowling, the last one they ever had, and she slammed down the lid, swallowing her whisky quickly. This was going to have to last.
It was time to get out into the field and find Ben. There must be no tales told out of school. As she trudged up the track, there was no sign of him walling, just Dieter who was waving frantically and running over, but she dodged him and took a short cut over a stone stile. Onwards and upwards to the high fells where the air would clear her head, fresh and cool. The loose limestone scree slowed her down. It was a long time since she’d visited World’s End–not since VE Day. For a while it had been her refuge but lately it was too much bother. Let it go to rack and ruin, she didn’t care. All the days were the same, grey, flat and empty, since Sylvia left them.
At least in Scarperton she could meet new people and be one of a crowd who laughed and worked in the mills and shops, clocking on and off, not like farmers who never got a chance to clock off.
Perhaps when Jack came out they would have a change of sky, as Granny Simms used to say. Funny how she could hardly recall any of that time, as if there was a wall between her and her childhood with no door in it.
She panted up the hill, unused to its steepness, and then stopped in shock at the sight before her, not sure if she had come to the right place.
The ruin was no more, but in its place was a fine cottage with a roof, new windows, signs of building rubble and activity. Someone had been hard at work rebuilding World’s End and they were making a fine job of it too. She walked around, stunned at the detail and effort into the little place that had saved her life so many years before.
She could hardly bear to look. No one had said anything about it being renovated but it was months since she’d bothered to come. Funny how she’d always thought of it as her World’s End, but the land probably belonged to Lord Benton. The Yewells must only rent it and now it was taken back.
She trekked back down the hill disconsolate, her insides churning like a butter tub. Who would go to all the trouble? She spotted Dieter in his battledress with the yellow circle at his back. He was waiting for her, cap in hand.