Saint Christopher and the Gravedigger

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Look, tell me… What do you think about this St Christopher lark?’

  ‘St Christopher what?’

  ‘This St Christopher business. Imagining you can get protection from a piece of tin with his face stamped on so you can drive a car like you were always drunk, or a motorbike… oh, motorbikes.’

  Arthur screwed up his eyes as he looked at his father a moment in silence, then he gave a small laugh as he said, ‘Well, havin’ had nothing faster than a bicycle I don’t have much need of him, do I?’

  ‘But if you had a motorbike would you depend on him to get you from here to there instead of using caution, like, and your common sense?’

  Arthur’s eyes screwed up still more as he answered. ‘Well, as I say, I’ve never had a bike so the occasion has never arisen… I’ve never thought about it… or him.’

  ‘No, that’s everybody’s trouble—they don’t think about it, or him, until it’s too bloody late.’

  After watching his father turn to the window again, Arthur, greatly puzzled, went out and slowly down the stairs. What was up with his dad? ‘Until it’s too bloody late,’ he had said. He could count on his two hands the times he had heard his dad swear, and never in the house… never.

  As his grannie was in the kitchen, he made no reference to the incident. He had more sense, but passed through the room with, ‘I’ll be seeing you, Mam.’ Then as he reached the back door his grannie’s words, like hard peas, seemed to hit him in the neck, saying, ‘Goodnight, Gran, I’ll be seein’ you an’ all.’ And he turned somewhat wearily and said, ‘Sorry, Gran. Goodnight.’

  Gran’s only reply was a loud sniffing ‘Huh’ and when Arthur reached the back porch his terse comment on Gran was checked by Frankie who was polishing his shoes vigorously.

  ‘What’s wrong with St Christopher? The old man’s up the lum, did you hear him going on about me getting a bike? Between him and Gran this house will drive me barmy… You’re lucky you’ll soon be out of it.’

  To this statement Arthur made no comment whatever. He just straightened his tie, stretched his neck out of his collar and walked quickly down the back garden path, along the few feet of dividing fence and up the next path to the Duckworths’ back door, and as he did so he repeated the word… lucky. Then, not unlike Gran, he added… Huh. He’d swap places any day with Frankie… Dad, St Christopher… and Gran thrown in. Boy, he would that… Lucky.

  Chapter Two

  ‘I think,’ said Broderick McNally, ‘your peas have a touch of the blight, John.’

  John gave no indication that he had heard this remark but went on steadily hoeing, trying to ignore the great bulk of his neighbour where he sat in a dilapidated deckchair among the high grass that took up much of the space in his garden. But although John had not spoken, he was answering Broderick rapidly in his mind, saying, ‘And what else can you expect with the weeds and grass seeds blowing about all over the place? Why don’t you get a shovel in your hand, you big lazy galoot, and get your patch cleaned up? It’s a disgrace to the street.’

  Broderick was talking now as if he were answering a comment of John’s. ‘Aye, it’s a beautiful mornin’ . . . Y’know, John, I look forward to Saturda’ mornin’ from Sunda’ night. When the old drill is blasting me eardrums apart I think to meself, come Saturda’ mornin’, Broderick lad, you’ll be sittin’ at peace in your own back garden and, God willing, he’ll set the sun flamin’ down on you… and he has.’ Broderick thrust his hands between his shirt and his trousers top and patted his large stomach. He turned his head lazily round to John again and asked with a broad grin, ‘Don’t you get tired of mucking about with the earth, John?’

  John paused long enough to look at Broderick under half-raised lids before continuing the prodding movement with his hoe.

  ‘But there, I’ve always held the notion you like shovelling muck.’

  ‘Then you’ve noticed wrong.’

  No sooner were the words spat out than John could have kicked himself for having risen to Broderick’s bait. His only defence now was to turn his back completely on his neighbour, and as he did this, Broderick, wriggling into an upright position in his chair, cried, ‘Well now, you surprise me. I somehow had the idea that it must give you a sort of delight to chuck on the first shovelful. The sound of it going plonk on the coffin lid, I told meself, must be like music to John’s ears.’

  John, after closing his eyes for a moment, was on the point of straightening his back preparatory to retreating indoors when Katie McNally’s voice came from her kitchen door crying, ‘Will you give over, you wobbling lump of Satan you, and stop tryin’ to get John’s goat. Take no heed of him, John… Would you like a cup of cocoa?’

  John forced himself to turn his face towards Katie McNally and he shook his head as he said, ‘No, thanks, I’ve just had a cup of tea.’

  ‘Good enough, John. But it’s no use asking his nabs there if he wants one, he could drink a swill bucket full. Here, Moira, take that to your da.’

  As Moira came down the path carrying the mug of cocoa to her father, Katie shouted to John, ‘It’s a grand day for the match, isn’t it? The lads were saying this mornin’ that the ground’s just Arthur’s cup of tea. He could get a hundred the day and no bother at all.’

  ‘He might if he was playing, but he’s not,’ Moira said.

  Not only did Broderick and Katie say, ‘What’s that?’, but John turned and looked at Moira over the fence. How did she know that Arthur wasn’t playing? Nobody in the house had said a word, he was sure of that; not even Frankie. For after a lot of to do about going out last night, he had gone to his room in a huff, and stayed there, expecting somebody, as Gran had said, to go and ’tice him out of it. Moreover, Linda hadn’t left the house either. It wasn’t likely that Arthur himself would have spread the news. Being used like a puppet between father and daughter wasn’t anything to talk about. As for it coming from the Duckworths, they never opened their mouths to the McNallys, any one of them.

  ‘Where did you hear that?’ asked Broderick.

  Moira wobbled her bottom and turned her saucy glance towards John as she replied, ‘Oh, a little bird told me.’ Then depositing the cocoa in her father’s hand, she moved towards the railing and leaning on the top of it she put her dark shining head on one side and asked with subtle simplicity, ‘He’s not playing, is he, Uncle John?’

  The fact that he was ‘Uncle’ to all the McNallys annoyed John. He had never even been able to call Broderick Broderick. He had always been McNally, and he had addressed Katie all the years as Mrs Mac. ‘Is he, Uncle John?’ repeated Moira.

  ‘Well, since you know it all, Moira, why ask?’

  Moira was not put off by John’s answer. She was used to Uncle John, and she enjoyed teasing him as much as her father did. Now she said under her breath, ‘He had to take dear Joanie to a social last night, hadn’t he? Because Papa Duckworth wanted to play the day, didn’t he? And there you’ve got the whole set-up.’

  John kept his eyes from the sweatered bust resting on the rails and looked at the merry, vivacious face. Here was a minx if ever there was one; she had all the makings of a piece. McNally would have trouble with this one, he’d bet his bottom dollar. But how had she come to know why Arthur wasn’t playing?

  Moira dropped her eyes and her face assumed an innocent childlike expression as she muttered, ‘Don’t look now, Uncle John—speak of the Devil and his imps will appear. Here comes Joanie and her dear mama, and they look happy—oh, ever so happy.’

  John took Moira’s word for it that Mrs Duckworth and Joan were coming down their pathway. He couldn’t hear their footsteps, for the Duckworths’ trim garden was divided by a grass path, but when a few seconds later his own garden gate clicked open, he was forced to turn his head towards it, and from there he met the superior glance of… the snipe, as he thought of Mrs Duckworth.

  He was about to give his brief greeting of ‘Mornin’’ when Broderick’s voice sailed over his head crying, ‘Good mornin’, M
rs Duckworth, and you too, Joan. Isn’t it the grandest mornin’? The air’s nearly as strong as a Burton, you can feel it puttin’ a jig into your legs, can’t you, now?’

  Accompanying her husband’s greeting came Katie’s laugh, a deep sharking bellow, and the lighter, more telling laugh of Moira. And when both Mrs Duckworth and her daughter went up the path without returning the greeting in any way, Moira turned from the railings and giving a simpering imitation of Joan’s walk, lisped, ‘Today I am so happy, as it happens, so happy, today I am so happy, I’m almost fit to burst.’ The last word came on an explosive yell as Broderick’s large hand caught her a slap across the buttocks, and he cried in mock firm tones, ‘Away in with you and don’t make game of decent people.’ Then, his voice taking on a low, chuckling, confidential note, he asked John, ‘How d’you feel, John, about your family bein’ tied up with the sourpusses?’

  John stopped his hoeing and, looking at Broderick, he said grimly, ‘Do you ever do anything but ask questions, McNally?’

  ‘Begod, y’know I do. I’m the hardest worked man in the village. But what you don’t seem to understand about me, John, is that I take an interest in life, and what is life but people?’

  John groaned inwardly as he watched Broderick heave himself out of his chair and come sauntering across the tall grass towards the railings. McNally goading him from the centre of the garden was one thing, but his great bulk leaning over the fence spraying him with jam-coated vitriol was another, and unbearable. It was almost with a smile that he looked towards his own kitchen door and Florrie standing there beckoning him. ‘Can you come a minute?’ she called.

  Without a word John turned his back on Broderick, who had just settled himself, with the support of the fence, into a talking position, and went steadily up the garden towards his wife.

  One look at Florrie told him that there was trouble and she indicated as much by a backwards warning jerk of her head. When he followed her into the kitchen it was made evident by the expression on the faces of both the mother and daughter confronting him.

  John’s own nature was quiet, yet he prided himself that he could see the funny side of things, and often he had a quiet laugh to himself. But he had always doubted if either Mr or Mrs Duckworth had ever laughed, inside or out, in the whole of their lives—and it was evident that their daughter had inherited this sombreness in a double dose. With her it had taken on the form of sullen peevishness. What on earth did Arthur see in her? He hadn’t yet got over the surprise of the first time he had seen them together. Arthur was a good lad, a nice-looking lad, and to John’s mind was worth something far, far better than Joan Duckworth, but he was quite aware that the Duckworths had the same feeling about their daughter and they did little to hide their opinion. To them the whole thing was unbalanced. Joan would one day own the business and she should find a partner who would bring something to the firm. What would Arthur Gascoigne bring? Nothing but his hands. It wasn’t good enough. But as Mr Duckworth had said, his daughter’s happiness came first, and they mustn’t let position stand in the way. This last comment, John knew, did not refer to Arthur’s position only, but to his own as a gravedigger.

  ‘Do you know anything about this, Mr Gascoigne?’ Full titles were still used between the Duckworths and the Gascoignes. For in spite of the engagement, the social gulf must still remain unbridged, or so at least thought Mrs Duckworth. ‘Mrs Gascoigne says she knows nothing whatever about it.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About putting off the wedding for another three months.’ Mrs Duckworth’s thin nose twitched. She looked affronted; gravely affronted. ‘Everything’s settled, hall and everything, and Joan’s dress on the way.’ She glanced at her daughter and Joan drew her small full mouth to the prune position, and naturally she too looked gravely affronted.

  ‘Why has he done it? That’s what I want to get clear. Why?’ Mrs Duckworth was now looking straight at John, and as he returned her gaze he thought, ‘This is what the lad wants to see me about.’ He did not now answer Mrs Duckworth but, looking towards Joan, he asked, ‘What reason did he give you?’

  ‘He said he wanted to save a little more.’ Joan’s voice was as thin as her face.

  ‘And that’s all my eye.’ The use of such an idiom did not go at all with Mrs Duckworth’s voice or manner. The expression seemed very much out of place. ‘Aren’t we paying for everything? Hall, reception and everything. The lot.’

  Florrie was biting on her lip when John said, ‘Well, perhaps that’s just what he doesn’t like. He wants to stand his share.’

  ‘Nonsense. When will he be able to have enough money to meet them?’

  ‘When you give him a rise.’ Florrie’s retort cut off John’s reply and brought Mrs Duckworth’s eyes wide, and a gaping, pained look from Joan.

  ‘Well, I like that. Talk about imposition. Still…’ Mrs Duckworth sighed. ‘It’s no more than I expected… But, anyway, that’s all beside the point and I can see that we’re not going to get near that here.’ Mrs Duckworth turned to her daughter. ‘I’ll see Arthur myself; this has got to be put straight.’

  At this point, Florrie, hearing Gran’s door closing above, said, ‘I’d do just that, Mrs Duckworth.’ And to intimate that there was no time like the present, she marched stiffly towards the door. There remained nothing for Mrs Duckworth to do but make her exit, which she did after throwing one disparaging glance in John’s direction. Joan followed her mother, but she paused for a moment in front of John and, her grey calculating eyes hard on him, said, ‘It was set for August 25th and it stays August 25th, so there.’

  Poor Arthur. John was scratching the front of his head when Florrie came back into the kitchen, but they hadn’t time to exchange a word before Gran was on them. After a quick glance round she asked of no one in particular, ‘They gone?’

  Florrie, knowing her mother-in-law, was not so silly as to ask, ‘Who do you mean?’ but said, ‘Yes, they’ve gone.’

  ‘What does Madam Duckworth want at this time of the mornin’? Not yet ten.’

  Florrie glanced at John, then sitting herself at the table remarked, ‘Oh, on about wedding arrangements.’

  ‘Like to bet ye tuppence that it doesn’t come off.’

  On this remark, John did not look in the direction of his mother but made straight for the hall door and the stairs.

  Gran, casting her eyes ceilingward and with her head on one side, listened for a moment to his steps before turning to Florrie and stating, ‘Y’know summat? he’s gone up them stairs in his gardenin’ boots.’

  Florrie drew in a deep breath before saying, ‘Yes, I know he has, Gran.’

  A silence followed Florrie’s remark, then Gran, sitting down by the table, made another statement. ‘I knew somethin’ was afoot,’ she said. ‘I knew it, and this is only the beginning. I had a feelin’ last night things were gonna happen. It’s gonna be one of them weeks… You mark my words.’

  There was no cricket pavilion in Downfell Hurst; the pitch being on the village green, the players got changed in Raglet’s barn. This was situated behind the village hall and the village hall was almost in a line with the wickets. The hall, moreover, had the advantage of having a wooden veranda along its front. This position was sacrosanct to the cricket scorers and the elite of the village. If it was too hot or too cold, the privileged few dissolved into the village hall and watched the game from the two windows that flanked each side of the door.

  It was the custom too for the wives of the players to provide tea for the visiting team and they always did this in the village hall. But today the custom had been broken. ‘Did you ever know anything like it?’ was the general gist of conversation. ‘To hold a political meeting on a Saturday. That’s your ruddy Conservatives for you, just to be awkward,’ said the Opposition.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said the Conservatives. ‘It’s the only day our Member could come. He has to go abroad next week and will be away for a fortnight, and then there are the holidays, and thi
s business of the picture house must be seen into, and at once. It’s as much to your advantage as ours.’

  The Conservative Member of Parliament was young—well, at least he was young enough to still be enthusiastic. Moreover, he had a theory: ‘You look after the villages and the towns will take care of themselves.’ So from eleven o’clock until he adjourned for lunch at Hurst Lodge with Colonel Morgan, he had answered questions on the seemingly vital subject of, ‘Are we going to have our village desecrated with a picture house and be guilty of the sacrilege of using what was once a house of God for the purpose?’ The Member was wholeheartedly with his constituents. And as he could not wend his way Londonward until this evening, he did not see why he should not set the seed for the hay to be gathered at the coming election, by giving an informal address that afternoon, and bust the cricket match—this latter was a very private comment.

  And so it came about that, while the cricket match was in progress, the Member addressed the devout and staunch Conservatives of Downfell Hurst, of which there were more than a few. As he mouthed set phrases and put over set patterns of policy with as much verve as to make them appear original, his voice was sometimes drowned by concerted cries of:

  ‘Lbw…’

  ‘Caught out…’

  ‘Oh yes, it was…’

  ‘God above, what do you think of that now… ?’

  ‘Well, of all the barefaced, bloody twisting umpires…’

  The latter statement came from just below the veranda. The elite not being in evidence on the sacred platform, some of the locals—of the opposing political party, it must be stated—had taken up their position on the edge of the grass by the side of the narrow road, and during lulls, although they had their eyes directed on the game, their ears were straining to catch some remark that would give them food for ribald comment.

  About a dozen yards from this particular group, and still within earshot of the speaker, was John. He was seated on a bench under a horse chestnut tree, and he too had his eyes on the game, but his mind was on the speaker. No one in the village had ever been able to find out to which party John gave his vote. When some of the bright sparks asked him outright, he had answered blankly, ‘A vote’s a man’s own business.’ And as John worked alone and under no pressure from workmates he was able to keep his political bias to himself. Although this was a great achievement, it meant he could not belong to either the Conservative or Labour clubs without giving himself away. John had never found any limiting factor in this restriction, that was until last night when he had got stirred up about the St Christopher business.