Saint Christopher and the Gravedigger

by Catherine Cookson

  Florrie had ceased to pay any heed to either Gran’s or Katie’s chatter for she was looking towards Aunt Lucy where she had taken a seat just inside the door, and going to her she said softly, ‘What is it, my dear, aren’t you feeling well?’

  Before Aunt Lucy could open her mouth to answer, Gran exclaimed loudly, ‘She’s seen what we’ve all seen, and it’s turned her over. It would,’ she ended scornfully.

  ‘Do you think John has gone up the lum a little bit?’ This from Katie who was leaning forward and asking the question of Gran, but it was Florrie who answered, her voice sharp and hard. ‘He hasn’t gone up the lum, Katie, and I’ll thank you not to suggest any such thing.’

  She might have reached the terrible conclusion in her own mind but she wasn’t going to stand by and hear the neighbours proclaiming it.

  ‘Now, Florrie, I meant no offence, none in the wide world. You know me. My gob would take two battleships but there’s no badness in me, nor mean intent. Now you know that, Florrie. I’m as concerned about John as if he was me own, and Broderick said last night—’

  ‘Katie… I don’t want to hear what Broderick said, not at this moment.’ Florrie’s voice was not loud but it seemed to ring round the room. ‘Aunt Lucy’s not well and wants to be quiet.’ She guided Aunt Lucy to the couch by the far wall, and easing her onto it said, ‘Lie yourself down for half an hour.’

  ‘I’ll be going then,’ said Katie, edging up from the chair. ‘I can see you want to be to yourselves. All I dropped in for was to see if I’d knock you up a meat pie for the morrow’s dinner. I’m going to do a bit of baking the night for Broderick to take out the morrow and I thought, with you handicapped running up and down stairs, you might like something to put you over.’

  Florrie’s voice was now kindly as she turned to her neighbour. ‘Thanks, Katie, but I’ve got it all in for the morrow. Thanks all the same; it was good of you.’

  Florrie kept her eyes from Katie’s hands as she said this. The very thought of those grimy nails digging into pastry that she would eat caused a little heaving movement in her stomach, but in spite of this she recognised her neighbour’s goodness of heart, and she went with her to the door, saying in parting, ‘You understand, Katie. I’m sorry I was blunt.’

  ‘Of course I do, lass. If you can’t be yourself with me after all these years, then God knows who you could be yourself with… What are neighbours for?’ She dug Florrie in the ribs with her elbow and, jerking her head back towards the Duckworths’ house, she whispered, ‘Not to come the la-de-da and play Mrs God Almighty. Some folks would like to be, wouldn’t they? Put the Devil in horseback and he’ll ride to hell.’ Then, her whisper dropping much lower, she continued, ‘Between ourselves I don’t envy you, Florrie, begod I don’t. Havin’ your family tied up with them… Chapelites are the worst in the world. Do you know what Broderick says? If her shift was…’

  ‘Ssh!’ said Florrie in a sweat of apprehension. ‘Be quiet, Katie. You don’t know where she might be… if she’s round in the garden…’

  ‘Aye, cuddy’s lugs. All right, I’ll be off… Keep your pecker up, lass, an’ I’m just across the grass should you be wantin’ me.’

  Katie waddled off down the path, and Florrie hesitated a moment in the shelter of the porch and sent a prayer heavenward for strength to cope with the burdens of the day as they mounted upon her, and not least of them were the good intentions of both Katie and Broderick McNally.

  Chapter Four

  It was turned eight o’clock the same evening and Aunt Lucy was gone. Gran had retreated much earlier than usual to her room, likely because she could see nothing more of a spectacular nature happening that day. Linda was at the Youth Club and Arthur was out… Where Florrie didn’t know, but one thing was certain, he would be with Joan, fighting a losing battle against putting the wedding off. Among other things now, she was worried about Arthur for he seemed disturbed and unhappy. She’d had words with Linda too, before she had gone out, on account of the way her face was made up. She had never seen her made up like it before—she could have been twenty-seven instead of seventeen. As she went about the business of setting the table for breakfast, she glanced to where Frankie was lying on the couch, his feet hanging over the head. Frankie was the only one of her family that she had no need to worry over. In spite of his chattering and jabbering, he was a good boy and had stayed in the night to keep her company because he knew she was troubled. He looked comic and uncomfortable lying like that and she didn’t know how he could read in such a position.

  His feet swung from the head of the couch and his paper fell to the floor in the same second that she turned to the doorway leading into the hall. Standing fully dressed, even to his cap, was John. She hadn’t heard him moving overhead nor coming down the stairs. After a moment of staring she went hastily towards him, muttering, ‘John, oh, John. What are you up for?’

  He silenced her with a lift of his hand, then, closing the door behind him, he said softly, ‘I was waiting until me mother came upstairs. I’m going out for a while, Florrie.’

  ‘Out? But the doctor…’

  ‘Look, lass, no matter what the doctor says, he’s wrong. I’m sick of telling you I’m not bad. I feel like a breath of fresh air and I’m just going for a stroll. Now, is there anything wrong in that?’

  Florrie looked him up and down then said quietly, ‘But you’ve got your good suit on, John.’

  As if in surprise, John looked at his trouser legs then exclaimed, ‘Oh, so I have. Well, I took the first to hand.’

  ‘You’re not fit.’ Florrie shook her head. ‘Don’t go out. You’ll have me worried to death. You know what happened this morning.’

  John now sighed a deep sigh then, patting her arm with a soothing gesture, he said quietly, ‘That won’t happen again, lass. I can assure you of that.’

  ‘How are you to know?’

  ‘I know all right.’

  ‘Would you like me to come with you, Dad?’

  ‘What?’ John turned abruptly towards Frankie. ‘Come with me? What for?’ Then without waiting for an answer he said, ‘No, no, I want nobody with me. I’ve told you, I’m just going for a bit of a stroll; I just want the fresh air.’ He looked from one to the other then, turning away, he walked towards the outer door. Before he opened it, he turned round again and said with weary emphasis, ‘Stop fussing, will you? For God’s sake, stop fussing. I’m not bad but you’ll have me in a damned sanatorium afore you finish if you keep this up, an’ I’m telling you.’

  When the door had closed on him, Florrie sat down weakly by the table and bowed her head, and Frankie, coming to stand by her side, said, ‘He never takes strolls at night. That’s funny in itself.’ Then he added, ‘Look, Mam, do you want me to go after him? I’ll not let him see me.’

  Florrie’s head came up now. ‘Yes, yes, you do that, Frankie, but for goodness’ sake don’t let him catch sight of you.’

  The position of private detective appealed to Frankie and he dashed to the cupboard and got his coat and was down at the garden gate just in time to see John disappear around the bottom of the street.

  From leaving the street until his father had reached the village green, three people had stopped him. Apparently, Frankie thought, to ask him how he was. One thing Frankie noticed in particular: his dad didn’t look as if he was out for a dander for he was striding along seemingly intent on going someplace, and the impression was borne out when he saw him turn up Moor Lane. Where on earth could he be aiming for going up Moor Lane… ? The garage? Was he going to the garage? Had he heard about him hiring out the motorbike for learning? Frankie became hot with resentment. Well, it didn’t matter what his dad said, he was going to have a motorbike, so there.

  Frankie’s present notion of ultimate success was to arrive on a motorbike at their front door. You could keep your cars, big, middle and small. Give him a motorbike any time. He reckoned he had achieved a great deal already for, unknown to any member of his family, he had obtaine
d a supplementary driving licence and had had three goes on a hired bike from the garage.

  The storm of resentment against his father welled up. He had always been down on him; Frankie never could do anything right for his dad. His dad didn’t like him; it was Arthur who had everything in their family. Well, his dad wasn’t going to put his spoke into this wheel. He could say what he liked but he wasn’t going to stop him having a motorbike.

  His teeth were clenched together as he saw his father approach the garage but when John did not stop and continued on up the road, not only did Frankie’s jaw relax, but so did the muscles of his whole face, until his expression looked like one wide gape. He wasn’t going to the garage then. So where was he off to? There was nothing on the road beyond the garage until you got to Biddleswiddle and that was a good four miles on. Perhaps after all he was just going for a stroll.

  As Frankie himself reached the outskirts of the garage he was just in time to step into cover when he saw his father stop, and his bewilderment grew when he realised that John was waiting for a bus. It was half past eight and this was the last bus out of Downfell Hurst. It called at Biddleswiddle, Befumstead and Battonbun before making for Hexham. There was only one bus coming back this way and that wouldn’t get in until ten thirty.

  Frankie’s attention was suddenly taken from his father by Mr Norton coming from the back of the garage, his hands thick with oil. He greeted Frankie cheerily, saying, ‘Hullo there. Come for the bike?’

  It being Monday, Frankie’s resources were low, and it was the condition of his pocket more than his concern for his mother which had kept him at home this evening. But as soon as Mr Norton spoke, Frankie saw the bike as an absolute necessity. He couldn’t get on the bus with his dad, and it had now become imperative to find out where ‘the old man’ was going. ‘I’ll have to tick it,’ he said.

  ‘That’s all right. How long do you want it for?’

  Frankie hesitated. ‘An hour maybe?’

  ‘OK. She’s ready in the back.’

  Within a few minutes Frankie had the machine wheeled to the side of the garage and at this moment the bus went past and Frankie waited to hear it grind to a stop before he put his head round the side of the building, there to see his dad getting on it.

  ‘Be careful how you go,’ warned Mr Norton.

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ said Frankie.

  He let the bus get a good start on him, and pushing the bike out into the road he revved her up. Then joy on top of joy, he was not only soaring through the air, deafened by the noise that was sweeter than music to his ears, he was also a detective… a private detective. After a moment or two he had to moderate his flying to keep out of sight of the bus, for should his dad happen to see him the game would be up in more ways than one.

  The bus made several stops before reaching Biddleswiddle and when eventually it stopped at the War Memorial in the centre of the village and Frankie saw that his father did not get off, he asked himself once more, ‘Where’s he going to, then?’

  The bus started on its journey again and when it reached the outskirts of the village it turned right and made a detour, going through the new estate. It was at the stop at the very end of the new bungalows that Frankie saw his father alight from the bus, and he was just in time to find a hiding place for himself and his bike behind a builder’s hut when he saw his dad walking back down the road in his direction.

  Coo! What was he to do now? Without the least resemblance to a detective of any sort he scampered for cover behind some bushes near a heap of gravel. The bushes formed a good vantage point and he watched his father walk to a fork in the road where two bungalows were in the middle of being erected. Then he saw him hesitate, look up and down the road, before taking the right-hand fork which brought him onto a path and back within a few yards of the actual bushes again.

  The ‘coos’ were racing through Frankie’s mind now, and when his father passed him almost within arm’s length, he began to tremble with a mixture of fear and excitement.

  When the sound of John’s footsteps had nearly faded, Frankie moved cautiously onto the path and, keeping close to the screen of bushes lining the road, moved slowly forward. He was too near his dad now for comfort and he was cautioning himself not to go any further when he saw him moving up an incline. Only his innate curiosity overcoming his fear drove him along the path to the cover of the last bush, and there in the clearing before him stood a new bungalow. It was built on a slight rise and had a fancy porch over the front door, and on the porch stood his dad ringing the doorbell.

  Frankie, his eyes popping and his whole body alerted for a running retreat, watched John ring the bell again and yet again. When he received no answer he saw him turn and gaze about him. At one time he was gazing straight at Frankie as if he had spotted him, and Frankie’s legs had the feeling of being turned into jelly.

  He was in line with the corner of the house and at the same time as he saw his father move away from the front door and walk over the unmade garden, he saw a woman come round from the back of the house. Then he saw their meeting. His father’s face was half turned from him but the woman’s face was full to him. He saw the smile that spread over it and heard her voice quite clearly as she exclaimed, ‘Why, John, this is a surprise.’

  There was a pause before his father spoke then he called her by her Christian name, saying, ‘Hullo, Freda.’

  To hear his father speaking another woman’s name shocked Frankie, but he had no time to realise just how he was feeling for the woman was moving towards the front door and speaking again. ‘I didn’t expect you so soon. Come in, John, come in.’

  When the door closed on the woman and his father, Frankie found he was actually shaking—convulsed by an emotion he had not experienced before. It was anger, and it was rising swiftly to a feeling of hate. He knew all about men having other women… married men… but these men hadn’t wives like his mother. His mother was good and bonnie; his mother was attractive and worth ten… twenty… a hundred of his father. What she had ever seen in him he didn’t know. He had a compelling urge to dash to the house, bang on the front door and yell, ‘You dirty old swine, you.’ But in spite of his feelings he did not take this step. His father had always had the power to intimidate him and the knowledge he had just gained of him, strangely enough, did not lessen this feeling of intimidation, rather it increased it. His father now appeared as a stronger, subtler character. He was a man cunning enough to be leading a double life.

  Frankie was faced with the first real problem of his life. He turned, and without taking cover now, he went down the path to his motorbike. Mounting it he rode slowly in the direction of home. The main question in his mind was, ‘What was he going to tell his mother?’ He knew it would give him a kick to expose his father, but it would hurt him equally to see his mother upset. The word ‘upset’ wasn’t, he knew, adequate enough to express how she would feel when his dad’s capers were made known to her. Yet he couldn’t keep this awful knowledge to himself, he would have to tell somebody… Their Arthur… Yes, Arthur was the one to tell, but where was Arthur? Out with young Duckworth somewhere, getting lessons on how to toe the line.

  Whether it was because at that moment he was thinking of his brother, or the sight of him so far away from the usual courting haunts startled him, or again that his driving wasn’t proficient enough to stand up to any shocks, Frankie found himself driving straight into a ditch and up the other side. Fortunately, it was shallow and dry, and after a number of wobbles and bumps he pulled the bike to a stop, and shutting her off and leaving her where she was, he made his way at a run the short distance back along the country road to where a lane turned off.

  It was as he glanced sideways at the couple going up this lane that he recognised their Arthur. He had his arms round… Although Frankie’s legs were carrying him swiftly towards the lane, his thoughts came to a dead halt and it was some seconds before his brain clicked in again and said to him, ‘That wasn’t Joan Duckworth he was wit
h.’

  When he reached the bottom of the lane, he saw Arthur in the distance, his arm still about the girl, and his nervous chest heaved. No, not on your life that wasn’t Joan Duckworth. This was a night of surprises and no mistake. He found he was angry, even more angry than before, and he bawled, ‘Our Arthur.’

  If a bullet had hit Arthur in the back of the neck he couldn’t have left the ground more sharply, but apparently his wits were about him for as he turned he thrust his companion into the cover of the hedge and after a moment of staring at Frankie’s quickly advancing figure, he moved to meet him.

  ‘What do you want here?’ Arthur’s sharp tone belied the scared look on his face.

  ‘I can ask you the same thing.’ For the moment Frankie had forgotten the burden of knowledge that he wanted to share with his brother. ‘I know who you’ve got up there.’

  ‘Look, you mind your own business.’

  ‘It is my business.’ It was almost as a revelation Frankie found that Moira McNally was his business. He wanted to hit out at his big brother and say, ‘You leave her be, I’m gonna ask her out, I’ve just been putting it off until I could ride the bike.’ This self-knowledge was as startling in its way as the duplicity of his father, and he found, as in his father’s case, he was all boiled up inside—real mad—and he spluttered as he cried, ‘Isn’t one enough for you?’

  ‘Look, Frankie, I’ll talk later the night. I’m trying to finish with Joan, but—’

  ‘You’re a bit late, aren’t you, and the wedding all set? By, you’ve got a nerve, our Arthur, and you’re the one that everybody says—“Oh, Arthur is a nice lad, quietlike.” I’ll say you’re quietlike an’ I’ll tell you something else, there’s not a pinch atween you and me dad.’

  ‘What d’you mean? What you getting at?’ Arthur’s brows were meeting and his voice was low.