by Maggie Hope
‘I don’t think he is, Lily, really I don’t. There would have been signs, something belonging to him, if a man was living there.’
Rose sat back in her seat, relieved. Then he hadn’t carried out his threat to take the children home with him. That was something to be thankful for. But she was still hungry for news of the twins.
‘Tell me what happened. What you said?’
He was driving into Hartlepool by now, the street lights coming on. Bob glanced at her, the light illuminating her pale face, then fading, then lighting it up again. She looked eager, her eyes sparkled in the lights. A lock of dark, almost black hair had fallen over her forehead. She brushed it back impatiently.
‘Everything?’
She nodded. ‘Everything.’
So he recounted it all, from the door being opened by Michael to his hurried getaway, careful to leave nothing out.
‘You called me Rose,’ she commented. ‘You knew all along, didn’t you?’
‘Just your name, from the hospital records. It’s difficult to change your name with identity cards. If you want me to call you Lily, I will.’
‘It was my grandmother’s name.’
Rose became silent as they turned into the street where she lived. He pulled up at her door and she turned to him.
‘Thank you, Dr Morris, for taking me. On your afternoon off an’ all.’
‘My pleasure. It was an … interesting evening. If I can do anything else to help, you only have to ask.’ A polite exchange, creating a slight distance between them.
‘Don’t get out, I can manage. Goodnight, Dr Morris. Bob,’ she added as he made to protest. She opened the door. Then, as though on impulse, she turned and kissed him lightly on the lips and whispered, ‘Goodnight,’ again. She’d slipped out of the car before he could respond and disappeared into the house.
Bob was left with a tingling sensation on his lips where hers had touched him in a sweet, soft as gossamer touch. He sat for a moment or two before starting the car and driving off. He was expected at his friend’s house for dinner.
There was something about the girl, something in her past, something more than she had told him earlier that day. There was such an air of tragedy about her, appealing yet unconsciously so. Some tragedy … what had her father done to her? Oh, Bob could take a guess. He had not worked in a large hospital without finding out a thing or two about the darker side of human nature. But his mind shied away from any of that. Not Lily … Rose. Oh, surely not?
Rose slept through the night for the first time since she’d come to Hartlepool, her anxiety over the twins appeased, at least for the time being. So instead of waking with a thick head and ten minutes late so that she had to rush breakfast to get to work, she was half an hour early and could take her time.
She turned on to her back and stretched luxuriously. She had dreamed she was in a car and the man driving had bent and kissed her just as she had kissed Dr Morris last night. A presumptuous kiss of gratitude which she regretted now. What must he think of her?
In her dream the man had not been Dr Morris, oh, no, she only ever had good dreams about one man. Jeff. The man had been Jeff and he had turned to her and kissed her and it had been just like that night, which seemed ages ago now, on the sands at Crimdon Dene. That magical night. She was in love with Jeff, she admitted to herself. She loved him, but it was hopeless, for even if he loved her now he wouldn’t when she told him how things had been for her. No man would, it stood to reason. She could never marry anyone, she knew that. She was soiled, tainted, filthy.
By, but it had been good, the dream. So sweet. She yearned for it to become reality even while she was telling herself it couldn’t happen. She wondered what Jeff was doing this morning. Coming home from fore shift or going down in the cage on back shift. He would be laughing, joking with the other men, helmet pushed to the back of his head, Davy lamp in his hand.
‘My lad’s a collier lad,’ she sang under her breath. How did it go now? ‘He brings the bright siller to me, to me!’ And she would be taking the children to school, a boy and a girl just like Michael and Mary, and maybe one in a pushchair, a baby … No!
No, she was a fool. The daydream faded, leaving her with an awful sense of loss. Rose pushed back the bedclothes and got out of bed, pulled on the dressing gown she had bought with her last week’s wages, a soft, white, candlewick dressing gown with roses on the breast. If she hurried she would get to the bathroom before the others, have time for a quick bath.
She should have been so happy this morning, she told herself. Why had she let herself dream about Jeff? Normally she wouldn’t, had schooled herself not to think about him. But today she couldn’t seem to help herself. Did he still write to her? Was he hurt that she didn’t write back? Had Marina told him she was in London?
Rose had an overwhelming urge to write to Jeff, keep the link with him, no matter how tenuous. Even though she had decided to cut him off completely, let him get on with his life. He could meet another girl, a girl who could love him as he deserved, a girl he could love wholeheartedly.
What a fool she was, causing herself pain thinking like this, wallowing in it. Pull yourself together, Rose Sharpe, she told herself. There’s nothing to be done so you might as well get on with it!
Chapter Twenty-three
‘I can get a transfer to Easington Colliery. Jeff’s there, it’s better than going where we know no one at all,’ said Brian. He and Marina were walking on the fell. He had his arm around her and she was leaning in to him as though for support. He felt ten feet tall.
‘But what about Mam?’ she asked. ‘I can’t leave her here, Brian, not now Lance has gone.’ He had gone as surely as her dad had gone, hadn’t he? Marina thought miserably. Australia was the other side of the world, it wasn’t very likely they would see him again. Dad. At the thought of him tears prickled at the back of her eyes. She hadn’t realised just how much she’d loved him until he was gone. Small episodes from her childhood kept coming back to her.
‘Take me to the rec, Dad,’ she had demanded so often when she was little, knowing he would put down his book and lift her on to his shoulders and take her to the recreation ground built by the Miners’ Welfare and kept in order by a retired miner, the grass cut, the swings oiled, even the toilets kept clean by the old man. And he had stood at the bottom of the great slide and caught her as she came down, swinging her into the air, and, oh, she’d thought he was the best daddy in the world. Funny how such long-ago episodes had come back to her lately. The later ones, the rows about money and gambling, had faded from her memory somehow.
‘Marina, are you listening to me? I said, we could take your mother with us. I’m sure I could get a house – they’re building them all the time now, Jeff tells me. He’s buying his own, did I tell you? Just an old colliery house, but he’s doing it up.’
‘Is he?’ Brian had caught her attention now. It wasn’t a common thing for miners to buy houses, though some had moved out of colliery houses into the new estates of council houses which were springing up all over the place.
‘He says we could move in with him until we get a place of our own. And then we could send for your mother.’
‘Oh, Brian, could we?’ She turned to him, her eyes shining. It was an escape route. Away from the curious eyes she saw, or imagined she saw, looking at her and her mother in Jordan; the constant whispers.
They had come to the overhanging rock, the place where Marina and Rose had sat so often and talked; the place where Rose had told her that awful secret, the one Marina couldn’t divulge to anyone, not even Brian. Even in her excitement the place reminded her vividly of Rose. Where was she now? Why didn’t she write? Was she still in London?
But thoughts of her friend were driven from her mind the next moment as Brian drew her into the shelter of the overhang and pulled her to him.
‘We could get married next month,’ he said. ‘Jeff has already asked about a job at Easington. He says the manager will be pleased to hav
e me. It’s a big pit, Marina, going right under the sea. Under the North Sea waves. You like the seaside, don’t you? Easington beach is spoiled but it’s close to Crimdon. There are lovely beaches all up the coast of Durham.’
Brian was excited, eager to get her to agree. His arms around her were strong, his eyes loving. Marina felt a stirring deep in her belly, her heartbeat quickened.
‘We’ll go to see the minister tomorrow, will we?’ he asked and she nodded. If an image of Charlie flitted through her mind it was blotted out by the surge of feeling which threatened to overwhelm her as Brian bent his head and kissed her on the lips, gently at first, then more demandingly. Her mouth opened under his, his questing tongue was tasting hers. They slid together to the grass, brown now at the end of the summer, brown and dry and warm in the shelter of the rock.
His hand was on her breast under her coat, her bra and even the thin cotton of her blouse an intolerable barrier. He slid his hand beneath to cup and hold it, rubbing his thumb over the swelling, erect tip.
‘Marina, Marina,’ he groaned and pulled the blouse aside, bending his head to reach the white skin with his lips. She strained towards him, her woman’s body automatically turning to submit to the man, and his hand strayed to her thigh where her skirt had ridden up. He touched the bare flesh above her stocking. His hand moved of its own volition to the wide leg of her lacy panties as a mist swam before his eyes. There was nothing, nothing in the world for him or her in that moment but the need. A need which, he realised triumphantly, was going to be assuaged at last.
Next moment he was being pushed in the chest and, caught off balance, was thrust easily to one side as Marina struggled to sit up. ‘No! No, I told you, Brian Wearmouth, not until we’re married!’ she shouted.
‘But … but, darling, we’ll be married within the month, won’t we?’ he asked helplessly. The mist before his eyes was clearing but his heart still pounded, the urge to finish what they had started insistent, demanding satisfaction. He could take her now, he knew he could, her resistance as nothing, she’d tantalised him enough, hadn’t she? But he couldn’t do it, no, he couldn’t, it wasn’t in him. Not when he looked at her lovely face, her bright and sparkling eyes – whether from passion or anger he was not quite sure.
Brian’s heart melted for her. His love, she was. He would never do anything she didn’t want him to. Not even that, no matter what the provocation, though it was hard, almost more than a man could stand. Her expression was becoming contrite too.
‘I’m sorry, Brian, I led you on,’ she admitted. ‘But honestly, love, I want to wait. It’s not long now, is it? We’ll get married and go to live in Easington. But are you sure it’s all right for Mam to come and live with us? You’re sure you don’t mind? Oh, Brian, I do love you – I do! You’re so kind to me, so kind.’ She leaned against him and he almost groaned aloud. Didn’t she know what she was doing to him? He held her away from him, did his best to think sensibly.
‘Come on then, let’s break the news to the folks,’ he said, getting to his feet and straightening his clothes. He brushed bits of grass from her back, turned so she could do the same for him. They stood for a moment, arms around each other, the only people on the wide sweep of the moor, just sheep cropping among the fading purple heather and dying bracken. Clouds were gathering above them, soft and reaching to the rim of the moor in the hazy distance, lying there like fleecy blankets. They began to walk home, arms around each other. From the side of the track a grouse rose into the air, startled at their approach. It would soon be the shooting season, Marina thought sadly, the young birds were grown. Poor things. And then the winter, the dead season, when the snow poles would come into their own, outlining the edge of the road in the snow.
Surely it was right to make a new beginning in a new place? she thought as they turned into the colliery rows of Jordan. As they reached the street where the Wearmouths lived, they saw Jeff’s car parked by the gate and Brian quickened his pace.
‘Come on,’ he said, eagerness lighting up his face. ‘I bet Jeff is here to tell me what the manager said.’
‘Are you going away, our Brian?’ Annie burst out as the couple went through the back door. ‘Jeff says you’ve got a job at Easington, are you going?’ Her small face was eager, alight with the news Jeff had brought.
He was sitting on the settee with a cup of tea in his hand. Everyone who came into the house had a cup of tea given to them in the first five minutes and perhaps a piece of Yorkshire parkin or Victoria sandwich.
‘Sorry, Brian, didn’t realise you hadn’t said anything,’ said his friend.
‘Oh, don’t mention it, Jeff,’ said Mrs Wearmouth, her voice tight. Brian shot her an apprehensive glance. She was red in the face and her eyes were bright with what looked like unshed tears.
‘Sorry, Mam, I was going to say but there wasn’t any point if I didn’t get the job, was there? Come on, I’m only going over to the coast, aren’t I?’
‘I’m sure I wouldn’t stop you.’ She sniffed and glanced behind him at Marina’s uncomfortable-looking face. It was because of the lass, she knew that, and she felt a moment’s animosity. But after all she wanted her lad to be happy, didn’t she? And that meant she had to be nice to Marina.
‘Cup of tea, pet? It’s just mashed.’ It was an attempt to appear as though the news that her son was leaving home made no difference to her whatsoever. Jeff at least was deceived and felt relieved, though Marina knew better.
‘Only thing is, Brian, you have to start the week after next. You’ll have to give in your notice today. But it’s all right, you can stay with me. Why not? I have a spare bedroom.’
Mrs Wearmouth sat down suddenly, as though her legs wouldn’t hold her. She looked to Marina for support. ‘But what about you, lass? You don’t want him to go so quickly, surely?’
Marina smiled. ‘We’re going to see the minister tomorrow, Mrs Wearmouth. I’m going to Easington with him, as soon as we’re married. I can get to my work at Shire Hall just as easily from that side of Durham City as this, can’t I?’
‘You’re going to work? After you’re married?’ Now her future mother-in-law did look shocked, but Brian laughed.
‘Oh, Mam, all the women work nowadays. Unless they have bairns, that is.’
His mother closed her mouth in a thin line. Young ’uns these days! her expression said as clearly as if she had spoken the words aloud. Still, in her day there had been no work for women to do, not paid work that is, and certainly not in the pit villages.
The wedding was in the chapel at Jordan. Marina had wanted a small wedding. She felt she couldn’t bear to have folk commenting spitefully on the cost of the celebration when her dad had died owing money to so many men in the village. But Kate had been against its being too small. A ‘shabby wedding’ it would be called then, and contemptuously too, by the folk there about.
‘Get away!’ she had said. ‘You ask your mates from work, and Brian can ask his friends an’ all. I’ll not have it said my daughter had a shabby wedding. No, I will not.’
Where she got the money from, Marina didn’t know. Kate refused to allow Brian or his family to contribute except in the traditional way of buying the bride’s bouquet and paying for the taxi which was to take them on their honeymoon, a week in Scarborough. Fifteen shillings each per night, in a boarding house on the edge of Peaseholme Park, full board of course.
‘Honeymoon, is it!’ Kate had said. ‘By, things have changed all right from my day. But there, if Brian has the cash … still, it would make more sense to put the money to some decent furniture. But I reckon you’ll take no notice of me.’
Marina was quite looking forward to it, though she wasn’t looking forward to the wedding night. She still had a dread that Brian would find out she wasn’t virgin and turn nasty. Though she couldn’t really envisage him ever being nasty, he was so even-tempered normally. But goodness knows how a man would react if he found out someone else had been there before him.
She was s
o nervous about it that she left her bouquet on the bed at home and the service was held up while Jeff rushed away to fetch it for her. In the vestibule she kept glancing at the minister, sure he must be annoyed about the delay. After all, he was going straight to another wedding in the chapel in the next village. But he had seen it all before and his kind smile never left his face. He smiled down at her, patted her shoulder.
‘Don’t worry, Marina,’ he said. ‘Everything’s all right.’ Then, before him at the communion rail, she trembled and almost ran out of the chapel but Brian had hold of her hand and it was too late. Afterwards, when Alice and Mr Brown and the other girls from the office were throwing confetti, and Mrs Wearmouth, who cleaned the chapel, was saying, ‘Not on the chapel grounds, please,’ with no effect whatsoever, she knew it was indeed too late. The ring was on her finger, feeling strange. She couldn’t forget it was there.
It was when the reception in the schoolroom was over and Marina and Brian had wandered around the room and had a few words with all the guests, and the dainty white court shoes which she had bought in Doggart’s in Bishop Auckland were nipping her toes something awful so that she couldn’t wait to get home to change them, that it happened.
The bride and groom had left the guests to themselves, Jeff running them over to the house so Marina could change. As they got out of the car Alf Sharpe, drunk as a scuttle and twice as smelly, appeared from nowhere and put a hand on Marina’s arm.
‘Get off! Get your filthy, mucky hands off me!’ she shrieked and Brian pushed her behind him protectively.
‘What the hell do you want?’ he demanded, strong language for Brian, who never swore.
‘What’s the matter with her? I was just going to wish her happy, that’s all. Why does she have to go on as though I was something that just crawled out from under a stone? I’ve seen the way she looks at me.’
‘You are! That’s exactly what you are – something from under a stone!’ Marina shouted, trembling with disgust and hatred. ‘You drunken, filthy pig!’