What had he done?
2
Cally knew her mam was dead; that she would never see her again. At the house in Jackson’s Yard people came and went in a constant flow. Men in black coats and tall hats brought a long, brown box. Neighbours, some crying, drifted in and out of the parlour, stopping on their way out to pat Cally’s head and mumble ‘gone to heaven’ and ‘at peace now.’ Cally smelt death in every corner.
Silently she accepted the words of comfort, her dark eyes awash with tears, her face pinched with misery. She huddled in a corner as respects were paid and the funeral arranged, cringing at Annie’s sharp command to ‘keep from under their feet’.
On the day of the burial, a chill day in November, Cally, in her Sunday best navy blue coat and hat, walked between George and Annie, one small hand clasped inside a roughened hand whose nails she knew were rimmed with black, and the other inside a limp, clammy hand that felt unwilling to be there.
George, his face driven into a thin line of anguish, stared straight ahead, his dry eyes fixed stonily on the back of the hearse. Annie, tottering on heels too high for the steep incline of School Road, muttered at Cally to ‘keep up’ and ‘walk properly.’
As Cally walked behind the big, black car carrying the box the men in dark coats had put her mam in, she pondered on who would love her now her mam was dead. Did her dad love her? She wasn’t sure. He never cuddled her or played with her like Mam did. Mam had said she loved her a million times but she couldn’t recall her dad saying it even once.
She knew Annie didn’t love her.
Cally thought about Marie, her school friend. As well as having a mam and dad, Marie had two sets of loving grandparents; Cally had never known hers. They had died before she was born. Her eyes filled with tears at the unfairness of it all. She desperately needed somebody to love her.
The hearse drew to a halt in front of the Church. Cally pulled her hand out of Annie’s and turned to look back the way they had come, surprised to see the large crowd walking behind. She thought her mam would have been surprised too, had she been able to see.
At the graveside George’s manner was such that several would-be sympathisers refrained from offering their condolences; the black eyes bitter with grief, the surly twist of his lips above the jutting jaw deterrent enough. A few less observant souls shuffled forward to mumble words of comfort. Some attempted to shake his hand but he kept his arms clamped to his sides, his fists rigid. Ignoring their commiserations he stared into the distance, and when he could stand it no longer he abruptly left the company, walking briskly out of the graveyard.
Head down, hands plunged deep inside his trouser pockets and his best black brogues striking a steady tattoo on the road he walked heedlessly. It wasn’t until he reached the wasteland behind the ash pits that he recognised where he was.
He trampled the weeds underfoot, crushing a golden clump of aconites as he staggered towards the place where Cally had sat a few short days ago. In the shelter of the ash pit walls he stared up into the greying sky then, throwing back his head, he howled like a lone wolf.
*
At eleven o’clock that night, George staggered down Jackson’s Yard and sent the door of number eleven crashing open on its hinges. Annie, sitting by the kitchen fire, jumped up. Made peevish by his sudden abandonment of her, she intended to give him a piece of her mind.
Now, seeing him sodden with drink, she seethed with indignation at his disregard for her. She’d packed Cally off to bed three hours before, three hours that George should have spent with her, Annie, now they were free to do as they liked.
‘What are you bloody gawpin’ at?’ George swayed on his feet, his speech slurred and guttural, his features distorted with drink – and hatred.
Annie’s intended rebuke melted on her tongue. She dithered uncertainly, then ran and slammed the door shut. George watched her, his eyes shiny black flints in his leering face. She was here and his Ada was gone; gone forever. He slumped into the nearest chair.
Annie lingered by the door, eyeing him fearfully. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t want her any more, she could tell. Seized with panic she crossed the floor to where he sat and, leaning forward, cradled his face in the palms of both hands. ‘It’s just me an’ you now, Georgy,’ she simpered.
George grabbed Annie’s wrists, pushing her away with such force she almost fell into the fire. ‘Bugger off,’ he growled, ‘I don’t want you.’
Annie regained her balance, her anger flaring. ‘You’ve changed your tune. You didn’t say that when our Ada was alive, and she’s not here any more. She’s dead and buried in case you hadn’t noticed.’ She delivered the last words tauntingly.
George reared up and grabbed her, pushing her to the floor. Then he was on top of her, fumbling at her skirt. It tore from hem to waist. Panting with exertion he loosened his trousers, his grin demoniacal as he gasped ‘you want to be wanted, do you? Well, we’ll see about that.’
When it was all over he rolled away from her and lay face down on the hearthrug in front of the fireplace. He felt the woollen tufts against his cheek and smiled. Ada had pegged this rug. What was it she’d said when it was finished? Ah, yes, he remembered now: it made a house a home; that’s what she had said. She had a grand way with words, did Ada. He fell asleep, still smiling. Annie crept upstairs and into George and Ada’s bed.
In the room across the landing Cally had wakened, her pillow damp against her face. She wriggled upwards until her back rested against the headboard, her reddened eyes roaming the mess in the untidy room. Cally hated having to share it with Annie. Where once it had been hers alone, it was now cluttered with Annie’s belongings; sticky jars of make-up on the dresser, drawers spewing knickers, petticoats and blouses and the second bed taking up too much space. She mucks everything up, Cally thought bitterly.
She closed her eyes to the mess and wondered if her mam had arrived in heaven yet. Pushing back the covers, she decided to look out of the window to see if one star shone brighter than the rest: that would be her mam looking down on her. But before her feet reached the floor she heard Annie’s tread on the stairs. She held her breath, waiting for Annie to appear, puzzled when she did not enter the room.
*
George woke the next morning, surprised to find he had slept on the hearthrug. Slowly he stood up, his head pounding and a foul taste in his mouth. He staggered to the sink and stuck his head under the tap. As the icy cold water revived his brain he grimly recalled what he had done the night before. Towelling his aching head he clumped upstairs, the thud of his boots disturbing Cally’s slumber, his angry roar shocking her into wakefulness.
‘Get out! Bugger off, an’ don’t let me find you in here again.’
Cally watched in amazement as Annie skedaddled into the room; only then did she notice that Annie’s bed had not been slept in. Cally gave her an enquiring glare. Annie scowled back, then threw herself into bed, pulling the covers over her head. Cally sat up, her arms encircling her drawn-up knees and her face puckered as she tried to make sense of what she had just heard.
*
In the days that followed, George barely glanced at Annie. Neither did he speak to her unless it was absolutely necessary. Annie, on the other hand, wanted him more than ever. During the day, she fussed over him wearing her prettiest dresses, hoping to penetrate the seething anger in which he had armoured himself.
Each morning, she ran to fetch the daily paper before he got out of bed. ‘I know you like to read it with your breakfast,’ she’d say, placing it in front of him. George took the paper but he left the food untouched. Later in the day she would tempt him, saying such things as, ‘I’ll cook your favourite liver and onions for tea’ or ‘shall me and you have an early night, Georgie?’ this said coquettishly as she winked in Cally’s direction. When she attempted to cuddle or kiss him he’d push her aside growling ‘not in front of the bairn,’ his neck reddening and his eyes moistening whenever they met Cally’s. Each night, Annie waite
d for him to invite her into the bed he had shared with Ada. She had no qualms about making love in her dead sister’s bed. George, however, did.
Anxiously, Cally observed Annie’s ministrations and George’s imperviousness, wondering where it was all going to end.
One week after Ada’s death the pit strike ended; George went back to work. Annie mooched about the house waiting for his return, but George was in no hurry to go home. At the end of each shift underground, if the Miner’s Arms was open, George lingered there until closing time, arriving home stupefied with drink. As soon as he had bathed and eaten he went to bed, alone. But he didn’t sleep. Befuddled and tortured with guilt, Ada’s face floated behind his closed eyes, beautiful as on the day they first met before morphing into the hideous rictus on the day she died. Silently, he begged her forgiveness over and over again but when he sobered up his betrayal still gnawed his heart and mind. He knew he should tell Annie to pack her bags, leave him and Cally to grieve, but in the daylight hours he weakened, reasoning that someone had to perform the household chores and be there to look after Cally whilst he was at work.
Cally, a constant reminder of George’s love for Ada, couldn’t understand why he looked woebegone, or shifty, whenever they were together. Had Cally been aware of the turmoil behind George’s gaze she would have been afraid. He couldn’t bear to look at his daughter, it ripped him apart, for every turn of her head, the slow, sweet smile and the way she formed her words reminded him of Ada – and the way in which he’d betrayed her. Worst of all was the memory of what he’d done the night of her funeral. He vowed never to do it again.
The longer George persisted in ignoring Annie, the more ardent became her pursuit. ‘I’m doing all right for you, aren’t I, George? I’d make a good wife,’ she said blithely, one Sunday after dinner as she cleared away the dishes. Wiping her hands on her apron she placed her palms on either side of his face, attempting to kiss him. George leapt from the table as though stung, swiping her hands away. ‘Gerroff! Leave me be,’ he barked, dashing for the door into the yard. He didn’t stop running until he arrived at Ada’s graveside.
‘It’s all your fault,’ Annie cried, slapping the back of Cally’s bent head. ‘If you weren’t here he wouldn’t be like this. You’re to blame for the way he’s carrying on.’ She delivered another clout before throwing herself into the chair by the hearth, burying her nose in a copy of the Red Letter.
Cally gingerly fingered her stinging scalp. She was here; she lived here. This was her home and her dad’s house. Why didn’t he tell Annie to bugger off, she wondered. It was obvious he didn’t like her any more. When he arrived back, Cally said, ‘Annie hit me because you wouldn’t let her give you a kiss.’
George rubbed his hand over his face. His first instinct had been to comfort Cally and chastise Annie, but he knew that wouldn’t answer his problems. He was to blame for this sorry mess but he didn’t know how to put it right. The very thought of his dalliance with Annie sickened him but he’d not ask her to leave; Cally needed looking after, and he needed someone to look after the house, and if provoking Annie meant she’d vent her spleen on Cally then he’d better not make a fuss of the bairn. As for Annie, if she thought he wanted her she was mistaken. He had no desire left in him. He wanted nothing, no one.
As time went by, George paid Cally no heed; she learned to expect none. Yet, whenever he was nearby, she thought she could smell the misery that seemed to seep from his pores: a misery as deep as her own. The frequent harsh slaps and vicious pinches Annie had hitherto delivered now became beatings. When Cally complained to George, he merely shrugged, saying, ‘keep out of her way’ or ‘you should do as you’re told.’
Cally tried to do just that, in the meantime yearning for someone to pay attention to her needs and love her the way Ada had. She knew that without her mam, life could never be the same but, in her innocence, she desperately craved for some semblance of the way it had once been.
It came, one chill morning in December, in the shape of Harriet Jessop.
Cally was sitting on the windowsill outside number eleven, swinging her legs aimlessly and wishing she was inside by the fire, but Annie had put her out. When she heard the clatter of heels echoing under the arch that joined the last house in School Road to the first in Jackson’s Yard, she looked up to see a tall, raw-boned young woman walking purposefully towards her.
The woman came to a halt in front of Cally and peered into the pinched, elfin face, lips blue with cold. Why on earth was the child sitting shivering on the sill on a day like this, she wondered. Then she smiled broadly. ‘You must be Cally,’ she said, her eyes and her voice warm and friendly. ‘You’ll not remember me, but I’d know you anywhere; you’re the spit of your mam.’ She raised her hand to the door latch. ‘Is your dad at home, love?’
Speechless, yet bursting with curiosity, Cally simply nodded.
Harriet pushed open the door. A woman, remarkably similar in appearance to Ada, turned and glared, malevolence turning to surprise when she saw not Cally, but Harriet. Harriet was surprised too. ‘Oops, sorry,’ she blurted, ‘I was expecting to find George.’
Annie stared, nonplussed. Close on Harriet’s heels, Cally teetered anxiously.
At the sound of his name, George appeared in the parlour doorway. ‘Harriet,’ he cried, a smile lighting his saturnine features. ‘By, Harriet, it’s good to see you.’ His smile fading, he stepped forward to take hold of Harriet’s outstretched hands, this warm and tender welcome arousing Cally’s curiosity even further.
‘I suppose you’ve heard,’ said George.
‘As soon as I got home yesterday,’ said Harriet, tears brimming in her eyes.
George pulled out a chair at the table. ‘Sit yourself down, lass, and you, Annie, make a pot o’ tea for Harriet. She’s Ada’s good friend from way back.’
Then Cally remembered; lovely, jolly Harriet. She was thinner now and her bright red hair much shorter but this was the friend who made her mam laugh. Cally went and stood beside her. Harriet plopped a kiss on Cally’s cheek then lifted her up into her lap, both arms enfolding her. Cally nestled in, the soft feel and sweet smell of Harriet’s body reminding her of when Mam used to cuddle her.
Sulkily, Annie made tea whilst George told Harriet about Ada’s untimely death. ‘Oh, I wish I’d been here,’ cried Harriet, George replying he wished she had too, and Annie’s ire flaring at their closeness. She listened jealously as they drank their tea, Harriet recalling happier times and telling George about her nursing job in London. ‘It’s two years since I was last here; two years too long,’ she said, sadly, ‘so I hope you don’t mind if I see something of this precious darling in the next few weeks. I don’t go back until just before Christmas.’ She squeezed Cally lovingly as she spoke.
‘No, see her all you like,’ said George, his face lighting up again. Cally’s heart turned somersaults.
Within the next hour in the untidy kitchen, the astute Harriet had come to realise that the woman she now knew as Ada’s younger sister had no liking for her niece. Several cruel words and impatient rebukes later, Harriet decided to act then and there.
Annie, at a loss as to what she should do about this ebullient and very popular stranger, sat sulking in a chair by the fire reading a Red Letter magazine. Harriet thought she’d do a far better job if she showed her niece some affection, read less trash and cleaned the filthy house. Gently, she slid Cally from her knee then stood, pulling on her gloves and adjusting her woolly scarf. Cally’s spirits drooped, only to soar again when Harriet said, ‘What do you say to me taking Cally to High Hickling, George? I’ll bring her back tomorrow evening.’
Cally’s eyes widened, the request hanging like a prayer on its way to heaven and she clenching her hands in supplication. Harriet glanced at the clock. ‘If we go now we’ll catch the next bus.’
George smiled, this time a proper smile that curved his handsome mouth and lightened his brooding eyes. ‘Aye, I don’t see why not. What do you say, Anni
e?’
Cally panicked, her delight quenched like a snuffed candle. Why did he have to ask for Annie’s approval?
Annie sniffed. ‘She’s nowt to do with me. I’ll be glad to see t’back of her.’
With Harriet’s help, Cally packed her nightdress and Sunday clothes then, back in the kitchen hopping from one foot to the other, impatient to be off, she remembered it wasn’t just Harriet she had to thank for this unexpected pleasure; she’d do that later. So she threw her arms round George’s neck, the stubble on his cheek abrading her own, but Cally didn’t mind. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she whispered.
George didn’t automatically embrace her but then he found himself clinging to her like a drowning man to a rock. He hid his face in her hair, breathing in her sweet, childish smell as he blinked away tears and, letting go, he said in a voice ragged with emotion, ‘You go an’ enjoy yourself, lass.’
Annie’s jealousy flaring, she cut in with, ‘Go, if you’re going. You don’t want to miss your bus.’
*
Number two, The Green, High Hickling was one in a row of two-up and two-down pit houses. There were five other rows exactly like the one in which the Jessops lived, their row being the first, or last, depending on the direction of view.
To the front of the Jessops’ house was a rough expanse of neglected ground littered with rubbish, and puddles when it rained. Immediately beyond this loomed a towering slag heap which, when the wind was in the wrong direction, shrouded the houses with acrid smoke or showered grit against the windowpanes. Bill Jessop, a trammer at High Hickling Main Colliery, often joked that his work was right on his doorstep.
Cally let go of Harriet’s hand, pausing to gaze at the ominous black mountain of slag. Blue-grey wisps of smoke spiralled skyward like writhing snakes and, as gases escaped, tiny landslides skittered then stilled, a sudden cloud of vapour hissing and puffing through the scree. Cally thought it must be like living in the shadow of a giant ogre’s lair. Harriet, on familiar territory, paid it no heed. Tugging at Cally’s hand, she led her indoors.
The Child from the Ash Pits Page 2