by Pam Weaver
Ben took off his cap and roared with laughter. ‘You nincompoop! So that’s what you’ve been sulking about all these weeks. I knew there was something up.’
‘Don’t you dare laugh at me, Reuben Yewell. There’s nothing more to say if you’re going to take that attitude. I hate you!’ She stormed off, leaving him standing, calling her back.
‘But let me explain…’ he called into the wind.
‘I’m not listening. Kettle calling the pot black, that’s you!’ She raced off down the track.
The stupid woman thought World’s End was for Lorna, Ben smiled, and she was jealous. He could see it in her eyes, up a gumtree with fury. It was time to clear the air once and for all and show that harridan just how wrong she was. Then he wanted to see the shame on her cheeks when he showed them his gift.
‘It’s not a night to be gallivanting out,’ Florrie advised. The sky was leaden and full of snow feathers and ice. She looked up from her knitting. ‘Better to stay indoors and have a game of cards. It’s icy out there.’
Mirren breezed past her. ‘We’ll borrow the van, won’t be long. Jack’s been stuck in all day long, helping with paperwork. He deserves a treat. You wouldn’t begrudge us a bit of life now, would you?’ She knew how to get round Florrie.
‘You never used to like those places, Mirren,’ Florrie sniffed, not looking up. ‘Now you can’t keep away.’
‘There’s nothing to keep us here, is there?’ Sylvia was laid on the table as her trump card.
‘No, well, if you put it like that, but don’t be late. Tom’s got a bad chest. It’s your turn to do the milking.’
‘When have I ever let him down?’ she said, knowing full well she’d be pushed to rise by first light.
Jack was looking brighter, more his old self, more the man she married except in the bed department. They’d not managed to get it together very well yet. But she wasn’t exactly Hedy Lamarr in the glamour stakes to help it on.
Ben went about like a bear with a sore head. He’d offered to take them both up to World’s End to show them round but she refused politely and didn’t want to hear any more on that subject. World’s End was off limits until hostilities ceased. She didn’t want to see the pride in his place when he showed them his love nest.
It had been a dreadful morning at the local marketplace. Lorna had snubbed her in the street. Hilda Thursby, now a mother, was pushing her pram and ducked behind the stalls when she saw her coming.
Mirren knew people were pointing at her behind her back, saying that she was the wife whose hubby had run over his kiddy while drunk. She knew what they were thinking and she didn’t care. She and Jack had each other and a bottle for company. The rest could go hang!
It was a freezing night, sure enough, and a wind had got up. They rattled down the village in silence. There was something on Jack’s mind. He’d gone quiet and shut off.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ Mirren said, hoping to chivvy up his mood, but he looked ahead and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Well, this is going to be a great night out if you’re in a strop!’
‘I was thinking perhaps we should go to the flicks tonight and not the pub. I’m getting fed up with the same old faces in Windebank.’ This was a surprise.
‘Then let’s go on to Scarperton; it’s only ten miles down the road. There’s enough petrol to take us there and back. I know a good place there. Fresh faces to meet.’ They drove down the narrow lanes and crossroads to the market town and parked up the van.
‘Fish and chips or a slap-up meal at the Rose and Crown,’ Jack offered. ‘Then we can go to the second house at the Plaza, like old times.’
‘Who needs a meal? Save your brass. Let’s get straight to the Golden Lion. They do crisps. There’s a good fire and a piano. I know the girl at the bar–Monica, she’s called–she’ll make us a sandwich.’
‘Mirren, we need to talk,’ he said in a quiet, serious voice. ‘This drinking’s got to stop. It needs cutting down. We can go to the Plaza or go dancing, if you like, make a proper night out for a change,’ he offered again.
‘What’s got into you?’ she snapped, not understanding this sudden change of mood. ‘It’s not like you to miss a pint. Don’t be a girl’s blouse.’
‘It’s not that, love. I just think we’d better slow it down a bit. Ben was saying—’
‘Oh, so Holy Joe has been telling tales, has he? Given you a warning. Take no notice of him, he’s in a mood since I won’t speak to him. Come on, I’m going in even if you’re not.’
Mirren left him on the pavement and headed for the pub door, certain that he’d soon follow her. She breezed in, greeted the gang assembled and waited for the door to open but it didn’t. It was too cold to be messing about so she went out to search for him. He was sitting in the van weeping, a grown man howling his head off.
‘What’s up with you now?’ she snapped, irritated. This was Jack going backwards again. ‘Come in and forget your misery. I want you to meet my friends.’
Jack shook his head. ‘No, love. I know all about it…’
‘About what?’ She was puzzled now. His face was a picture of misery.
‘What you’ve been up to with the bottles. I found your empties.’
‘What bottles might they be?’ She shivered but tried to look puzzled.
‘Your medicine bottles. I was searching for some slippers and went in your wardrobe and they fell out. There were dozens and dozens of empties,’ he croaked.
‘So?’
‘Mirren, there were whisky bottles everywhere, pounds and pounds worth of empties. What have you done to yourself?’ he sobbed.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She flushed at his discovery.
‘Oh, come off it, you’re drinking enough for two, worse than any man. I know you can’t help it. I know what it’s like. I used to see the army whisky swiggers, taking nips here and there. The officers were the worst. It’s strong spirit. This isn’t you, not the girl I married,’ he whispered.
‘And who beat me round the head, took me whether I wanted it or not and killed my babies?’ she screamed. ‘That’s not the guy I married either!’
‘It can’t go on, not like this. It’ll harm your insides. Women can’t take it like men.’
‘Want to bet? Come on, you’ve said your piece and I’ve listened but we’re wasting good drinking time. Don’t be a spoilsport.’
‘Dr Kaplinsky said I must fight my demons and drink made them worse, not better,’ he pleaded again, but she’d heard enough.
‘Dr Kaplinsky? I’m sick of his name. What does he know?’
‘I told you before, he knows about suffering. He lost all his family in the war. They were Jews. Let’s go home. I’m done in.’
‘Well, I’m not, not at all. If you won’t come in then I will jolly well go back and enjoy what’s left of my evening. You can go home and I’ll walk back.’
‘Don’t be daft. Like that time when Ben came to find you?’ He faced her angrily.
‘Oh, so he’s been telling tales, has he?’
‘He’s your cousin, he’s family, he loves you. It broke my heart to see those bottles hidden away. I want to keep you safe. You’re my girl…’
‘Don’t go all teetotal on me now, Jack. It doesn’t suit you.’
‘Drink doesn’t suit you either. It’s not the answer. Together we can move away, put all this behind us, make something of ourselves, but not with a bottle between us. What would yer gran and Joe make of you going in pubs? They’d be horrified, and I’ve brought you down to this. I showed you the way. Please, Mirren, come home with me and we’ll make plans and find a way through together.’
‘Leave me alone! I’m fine. I need a break, not a sermon. I’ll get the last train home, I promise. You can meet me at the Halt. Go on then, on your way if you’re not coming in. I don’t want you hanging around. You can do the morning milking,’ she laughed, but the laugh was hollow as she waved him off. What on earth had got into Jack?
; He’d turned coat and gone all strait-laced and prissy. He must be having one of his turns. Well, ‘Let him go, let him tarry, let him sink or let him swim’, as the song went. His loss. Where she needed to be now was not in a van with a lap full of fish and chips from newspaper but through the door where there was a roaring fire and a vat of whisky to drink dry or die in the attempt. That was better. It was true that the world looked better through the bottom of a glass.
The whole gang was there, Elsie, the wild Irish market trader, ripping up and down the keyboard singing old Irish ballads. There was Mr Fisher and his mates, arguing over whose round it was, and then there were builders’ boys, who’d start a fight before long and be chucked out into the chill air.
At closing time they all spilled out onto the street and someone knew a cellar where you could get stuff on the QT. Mirren’s breath steamed in the frost and she drank until her purse ran out. Elsie bought the cardigan off her back, the new one Pam had knitted for her for Christmas.
Cragside was lost in the mist. Jack was a faded argument. Here she could let rip and be herself, singing and cavorting. One by one they all peeled away until there was just her and Elsie, sitting on a bench, roaring out songs.
‘Shut that bloody racket up!’ shouted a voice from a window. ‘You’re waking my kids!’ Dogs were barking. The drunks rolled up the High Street laughing. Mirren didn’t feel the cold with a bottle in her bag and then she slid on the icy pavement and her bag flew off her arm and the glass broke, spilling precious liquid through the straw. She kicked the broken glass in frustration.
‘Pick it all up, young lady, or I’ll make you!’ said a gruff voice.
‘You and whose army?’ she heard herself say.
‘Pick up that mess yourself and get along home.’ There was a pair of black boots and navy trouser bottoms in her face. Mirren looked and sniggered, and then saw the blood on her hands and knew no more.
She woke with a banging headache in a lock-up cell with grey walls and tiles covered by a blanket. Her hand was bandaged tightly and she groaned. This was Scarperton police station.
‘Right, Mrs Sowerby, if you’ll just sign here to say these are the contents of your bag and purse, your watch…’
‘Why am I here?’ she croaked, her eyes bloodshot and her forehead throbbing.
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘Not exactly. I was out with friends.’
‘We didn’t see anyone with you, young lady. You were insulting my police officer, and drunk and incapable. We are charging you with disorderly conduct. Is there anyone you’d like us to inform of your whereabouts?’
‘My husband, Jack…John Wilfred Sowerby of Cragside Farm. He can come and fetch me.’ The police inspector nodded and left the cell.
Oh shit! She sat in the bare cell, feeling foolish, hungry, hung over and in need of a stiff one to get her on her feet. If only Jack had come with her, none of this would have happened.
Ben had never seen Jack in such an agitated state when he brought the van back alone.
‘Where’s Mirren?’
‘You may well ask,’ came the answer. ‘Just come and look at this!’ Jack stormed up the stairs, two at a time and Ben followed behind. Curious. What on earth had got into him? Jack was peering into a sackful of bottles. ‘This is what it’s come to…hidden in her wardrobe. Go on, count them. She’s Paddy’s girl, right enough, and it’s all my fault!’
Ben peered into the pitiful pile of small whisky bottles and swallowed hard. Bloody hell!
He felt like an interloper in their bedroom, with Mirren’s clothes scattered over the chair, the overwhelming smell of perfume trying to mask the stench of stale whisky.
‘I don’t know what to do. The doc said to keep off the stuff and now she’s drowning in it. I left her in that pub in Scarperton. I were that mad…’
‘The Golden Lion?’ Ben said, not looking at Jack, not wanting to see the despair on his face. He ought to feel glad that Jack was getting his comeuppance but he felt sick with worry.
‘You knew about her little haunt, then? Why didn’t you say?’
‘It was not my place, as you’d soon have spelled out,’ Ben replied. ‘I didn’t fancy your fist in my jaw.’
‘Is that what you think? We all used to be mates. What’s happened to us? I come back drinking like a fish and kill my kiddy…Don’t look like that. It’s true. Now Mirren’s hitting the bottle and I’m sober as a judge. God forgive me, I shouldn’t’ve abandoned her. I’d better go back.’
‘No, I’ll go,’ Ben offered. It was a foul night and Jack was not fit to drive.
‘It’s not your problem. I’ll be fine.’ Jack raised his hand to fob him off. ‘Just a bit out of practice with all those sleeping pills. I’ll be all right.’
‘What’s going on?’ Florrie was out of her bedroom door, wearing iron pin hair curlers under a pink net. ‘You’ve been up and down them stairs like thunder…What’s going on?’
‘Nothing, Mam, go back to bed. We’ll explain in the morning. I’m just going to fetch Mirren from the station,’ Jack said.
‘At this time of night? Have you two had another quarrel?’
‘Nowt like that, go to bed,’ Jack snapped.
‘I’m coming with you,’ Ben ordered. His heart was thudding with fury at Mirren for keeping them up again. Would she never learn?
‘Well, I’m driving!’ Jack jumped back into the van. They backed out of the yard and down the drive and track towards Windebank. Ben sat in the car on the bench seat, waiting until the steam train puffed into sight on its way up to Carlisle.
Jack stood by the platform as the last stragglers left through the side gate, walking back, his shoulders hunched. ‘What’s she playing at?’
‘Missed the train again?’ Ben shrugged. ‘Hop in. I’ll drive.’
‘This is my shout and my wife. We’ll have to go and fetch her from that flaming pub. Hutch up…’
He was driving like a madman, taking corners too fast, lost in his fury.
‘Steady away, there’s ice on the road.’ Ben was nervous. Jack’s love of speed, racing round bends, wasn’t funny on a night like this. ‘Gently, Bentley, there’s a black patch in the shadow of the wall. This’s not Oulton Park! Calm down, she’ll still be in there.’
‘I hope so. She needs help. What a bloody mess. If only—’
‘Just concentrate on the road; you’re making me nervous. It’s a while since you’ve driven in these conditions. Let me take the wheel,’ Ben offered, but Jack was adamant.
‘What’ve I done to make her like this? No, don’t tell me!’ He turned to look at Ben for one second and suddenly the wheels went into a skid.
‘Jack! Reverse the wheel!’ Ben screamed, trying to grab the steering wheel. They ricocheted off the stone wall and spun into the air. It was like some slow waltz, shaking like marbles in a tin can, the sound of splintering glass. The van door opened of its own accord and Ben was flung onto the grass verge. The last thing he saw was the wheels spinning, the van upside down.
He woke with a crushing pain in his side. There was not a sound from the van but somewhere a dog barked in the night.
The policeman came back with a cup of strong tea sweetened too much.
‘Have you rung the post office at Windebank?
They’ll send a message to him. He’ll come for me.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ the officer muttered, looking at her sideways on. ‘I’ve contacted a Mr Reuben Yewell instead. He’ll be along shortly.’
‘But I want Jack, not Ben,’ she said, knowing it would mean more lectures and sermons from the mount. The whole of Windebank would know her business once Sergeant Bill Turnbull passed the glad tidings around, but it would appear in the Scarsdale Gazette anyway. She felt numb and silly now. If only she’d not broken that bottle. It was cold without Pam’s cardigan, and how would she explain its loss?
Why was everything taking so long? she thought, watching the hands of her watch creep slowly
round. She tried to look contrite and smiled at the young man who brought her more awful tea but he looked at her as if she was an object of pity.
It was a relief when Ben stood in the doorway still in his farming gear, smelling of dung and hay. He could at least have changed his shirt.
‘At last! What took you so long?’ She stood up, trying to look dignified in her dirty skirt and tattered stockings. ‘You needn’t look at me like that! Where’s Jack? He said he’d wait for the last train.’
‘Oh, he did that all right, waited and waited, but you weren’t on it, were you? Then, being Jack, he made his way back to Scarperton just like I did to find you, but there was black ice on the road, Mirren, the sort you don’t see in the middle of the night. We skidded and crashed the van, did a spin and hit a wall full on.’
He paused, shaking his head, and she sank onto the bench, winded with shock.
‘Is he OK?’ she mouthed.
He shook his head again wearily. ‘Mirren, there’s no easy way to tell you this, but Jack is dead. He died at the wheel. It would have been quick, the ambulance man said.’
‘Is this some sort of joke?’ she snarled, looking at the bobbies standing in the doorway.
‘No, missus, sadly not,’ said one of them. ‘We were called out early this morning to an incident. The A65 is treacherous. Poor man never stood a chance. This one here was lucky he fell out of the van.’
Mirren sat in the back of the police car, silent, stony-faced, out of this world, with her brows furrowing, trying to shake off her hangover. Suddenly she felt so small and vulnerable and lost. This was all some dreadful nightmare; too much cheap hooch was giving her strange dreams. There was Ben, full of bruises, telling her some tale about Jack being dead, but it was little Sylvia who was dead.
Then she was in some cold tiled place where they were making her look under a blanket. Her eyes wouldn’t focus. It was as if it were all happening to somebody else and she was looking down from the ceiling. It looked like Jack fast asleep except for the dent in his head and the strange colour of his skin. She saw herself nodding but her tongue was stuck in her mouth.