Saint Christopher and the Gravedigger

by Catherine Cookson

‘Just what I say. All this St Christopher business is a cover-up—a cover-up for his women.’

  ‘Have you gone screwy an’ all.’

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder with the shocks I’ve had the night.’

  They were glaring at each other now.

  ‘What are you talking about? Take it I’m playing a double game, what’s that got to do with Dad?’

  ‘For your information he’s on the same tack.’

  ‘Dad!’ Arthur now put his head back and laughed, but he stopped abruptly as Frankie cried, ‘Shut up!’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘No, of course I’m not serious, it’s all fun. I’ve just followed him to Biddleswiddle where he went to a bungalow, one of the new ones, and he met a woman and she called him John, and was over the moon to see him and he called her Freda and he’s inside there with her now… No I’m not serious.’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘For God’s sake stop saying “Dad” like that as if he was McNally’s Blessed Virgin or somethin’. Yes, Dad. And he’s carrying on with another woman like you’re carrying on with Moira McNally.’

  ‘He’s not carrying on with me, Frankie.’

  They both turned round in surprise as Moira stepped out from the cover of the hedge.

  ‘Oh, Moira you shouldn’t.’ It was a weak protest from Arthur, but Frankie’s protest wasn’t weak for he turned on Moira shouting, ‘I suppose you’ve had an earful of things that don’t concern you, sneaking down like that.’

  Moira’s head was cocked tantalisingly on one side as she said, ‘I’ve heard enough to make it interesting—your dad’s got another woman.’

  ‘If you dare say a word a this.’ Frankie took a threatening step forward and as Arthur thrust his arm out protectively in front of Moira, she said, ‘Who said I was going to say anything. You know, Frankie Gascoigne, you hate me so much you can’t see straight, never could.’

  Frankie stared at her fascinating face while trying to ignore her fascinating figure. Was she bats, hate her… hate her? When he was all churned up inside about her and could kill their Arthur this very minute. Hate her? Why he… Frankie couldn’t speak the word even to himself. He couldn’t explain that his teasing and his jibes over the years had been but the laying of the foundation of love, for he hadn’t known himself. All he could do now was hang his head helplessly.

  ‘What was she like, the woman?’

  It was some seconds before Frankie answered, and he turned his back on Moira before saying, ‘She’s older than Mam, all dolled up and painted. Sort of good-looking in a way, I suppose.’

  ‘I’d better go home.’ Arthur looked at Moira and when she nodded understandingly he turned to Frankie again asking, ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘On a motorbike.’

  ‘A motorbike?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake stop repeating things, our Arthur. I’m learning to drive a motorbike and the only way to learn to drive is to sit on one and let it go.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Arthur in a big-brother voice. ‘You’ll soon be like Gran with your tongue.’

  ‘I’m not like Gran, and don’t say I am.’ This was the second one in the last few days to say he was like Gran. The world seemed a very unkind place to Frankie at this moment.

  Arthur said no more and they all walked dolefully down the lane.

  ‘I’ll come on the back,’ said Arthur when they reached the bike.

  ‘What about her?’ Frankie, with a curt point of his head indicated Moira as if she wasn’t there.

  ‘I’ll walk.’

  ‘Walk?’ Frankie was forced to look at her now. ‘All the way?’

  ‘I’m used to walking… I like walking.’

  Frankie turned about and mounted his bike and although his back was towards them he knew that they were holding hands. He heard a few whispered words and then Arthur was sitting behind him. As Frankie drove away he was not thinking of traffic signals, or the rudiments of driving a motorbike, nor yet the astounding side to his father which he had discovered, nor even their Arthur’s double dealings, but of Moira, naturally, her hips swaying, walking the four miles into Downfell Hurst.

  ‘Oh, why didn’t you follow him?’ said Florrie.

  ‘I’ve told you, Mam. He was on the Biddleswiddle Road and I just slipped into the garage to see Mr Norton. I wasn’t a second and when I came out he was gone.’

  ‘And you say the bus didn’t pass you. He didn’t get on the bus?’

  ‘Oh, Mam, we’ve been over it again and again.’

  Florrie looked round her family. They were all there, including Gran, and she said helplessly, ‘But look at the time, it’s ten past eleven.’

  ‘He could have called in at the club,’ said Arthur weakly.

  ‘You know he doesn’t go to the club, Arthur; and anyway he said he was just going for a walk.’

  ‘Well.’ Gran was speaking now, flatly and definitely. ‘If you ask me, you won’t get any further until he comes in, and as he’s neither in swaddling clothes nor on crutches, he’ll be back… That’s if,’ she added, ‘his mind holds out or he doesn’t get himself knocked down.’

  ‘Oh, Gran!’ It was an exclamation of indignation from Linda.

  ‘All right, miss… Oh, Gran. Well can you think of any explanation that’s kept your dad out to this time?’

  ‘Ssh! All of you… Here he is.’ Florrie’s wary ears had picked up John’s footsteps in the street, and they all listened to the gate clicking and the steady rhythmic tread as he neared the door.

  John was brought to a halt immediately as he stepped into the kitchen. Whatever reception he had expected he hadn’t imagined his whole family still being up and waiting for him… plus Gran. All eyes were fixed hard on him and he looked from one to the other before saying, ‘What’s this? Why didn’t you send the bellman out for me?’

  ‘Oh, John, I’ve been so worried. Where did you get to?’ Florrie came towards him and as he pulled his coat off she took it from his hands.

  He did not answer her right away but walked towards the table, throwing his cap onto the couch as he did so. It wasn’t until he’d sat down that he said, ‘I just went for a walk as I told you and I came back by the cemetery and called in the hut to see to one or two things.’

  ‘In the cemetery in the dead of night?’

  John, turning towards Gran, said quite evenly, ‘Yes, Mother. I was in the cemetery in the dead of night. I’ve got nothing on me conscience and nothing to be afraid of.’

  Gran’s chin was doing its wobbling stunt and when it stopped she remarked, as she moved her gaze from one member of the family to another, ‘The bus must have gone out of its wits an’ all and gone round by the cemetery where never a bus has been known to go afore.’

  John’s eyes were narrowed and his face was red as he turned on his mother sharply, ‘What d’you mean, the bus?’

  Dramatically Gran pointed to the floor. ‘That bus ticket fell out of your cap when you took it off.’

  Through force of habit John had stuck his bus ticket up under his cap near his ear. For a moment his heart quickened, then he said boldly, ‘All right then, I took a bus ride. Is there anything wrong with that? And I took it early on and went as far as Biddleswiddle.’ It was no use trying to hide where he had been, the old devil had only to look at the ticket and she could work that out.

  ‘Will you have something to eat?’ said Florrie soothingly.

  ‘No, thanks, I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Then a drink of something?’

  ‘No, nothing at all. I think I’ll just go up.’

  In dead silence they all watched him cross the room and when he had reached the door he turned and said with emphasis, ‘Goodnight.’ And one after the other they mumbled, ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Well! What d’you make a that? He’s been drinkin’ or somethin’.’ Gran nodded knowingly to each member of the family in turn.

  ‘Aye, it was… or something,’ thought Frankie. By, he never though
t that his dad had it in him to be so two-faced. He was forty-faced, not two, and so bloomin’ calm with it. He had the desire now to rush upstairs, push open the bedroom door and shout, ‘You twister you.’ He could see himself doing it, but as before it got no further than a picture in his mind.

  Arthur on the other hand was thinking, ‘He’s got himself into a jam.’ Arthur knew the subtler shades of his father better than Frankie, and he had seen the change in his face when Gran had mentioned the bus.

  ‘Let’s get to bed. We’ll have no more talking the night.’

  One after the other, Florrie bustled her family upstairs and when finally she followed them and went into the bedroom, John was already in bed but his eyes were open. He greeted her immediately in a soft undertone, saying, ‘Come here.’ And she went to him, sat on the side of the bed and, after looking at him for a moment, she fell against him and he put his arms about her and stroked her hair.

  ‘I’m all right, lass. I wish you’d stop worryin’.’

  ‘Oh, John, I can’t. Where did you get to the night?’

  It was a while before John replied and then he said, ‘I went for a walk and I had a little bit of business to do. I’ll tell you about it sometime, but not now. Look at me.’ He raised her tear-stained face to his, then smiling on her he said tenderly, ‘I love you now the same as I did the first minute I set eyes on you, and the night I’ve found out that you’re the bonniest woman in the world.’

  John talking in this way, like when they were first married. Oh, what was the matter? Oh, something was wrong, radically wrong.

  Even under ordinary circumstances, Florrie would have been surprised at this stage in her married life that John should say such things to her, but under the present stress, his tenderness and loving phrases only increased her worry, and as she cried herself into her first sleep, John was made aware of this and he sighed a deep sigh.

  Well past midnight, John was still awake, for his mind was churning with his problems and as he listened to Florrie’s regular breathing he wondered if he should tell her about Freda. Not for the world would he add to her worries, but from what he had seen of Freda tonight, he was going to see a great deal more of her if she had her way, for she had suggested paying a visit to the house.

  ‘Tell Florrie,’ she had said. ‘And you can invite me to tea like an old friend—and I am an old friend, aren’t I, John?’ His body went hot under the bedclothes. She had stood near to him when she had said that, and then she had cocked her head to one side and remarked, ‘You know, John, I wouldn’t have believed it, but you’ve grown into quite a good-looking man—attractive an’ all. But there’s one thing you haven’t lost and that’s your dour expression. You were always dour, weren’t you, John? I think that’s what I couldn’t stand. It got my goat. But now, I don’t know, for somehow I think you’ve developed compensations.’ She had poked him in the chest with a heavily ringed finger. She wore a lot of jewellery and it all looked good. The house too was furnished in style. It was more than evident that she was very comfortable, and she had said as much to him.

  ‘George had a selling manner,’ she had said. ‘But he would never have got anywhere if it hadn’t been for me, for, God help him, he never had much brain. I was the brains in our business.’ Then she had ended, ‘And so you’re a gravedigger, John.’ She had spaced each word and hammered them home. He felt some of the uncomfortable old days with her wash over him once again.

  When he had told her without much diplomacy that he had no intention of inviting her to the house, she had laughed and said, ‘Well, it will be the easiest thing in the world for me to find out where the boy’s working and make myself known to him.’

  Quickly he had corrected her, telling her that Arthur was no longer a boy but a man of twenty-one and about to be married. And he had also informed her of what she had never seemed to understand—that she had no claim whatever on Arthur. She had been quick to take this up and had said she understood well enough her position with regards to Manning’s son, but the fact that he was Manning’s son was the reason why she wanted to see him, and what’s more, she would see him. She had gone on to say that she had had no idea that he himself was anywhere in the neighbourhood when she took this house, but once she did know she admitted that her interest was revived, ‘For, moreover,’ she had added with a laugh that held a trace of bitterness, ‘I don’t forget you skedaddled all those years ago. I know that I could have won Florrie over to let me have the boy if you hadn’t scooted.’

  It had been no use telling her that she could never have won Florrie over; it was never any use telling Freda something that she didn’t want to believe. Freda had changed in only two ways, he considered. She had lost most of her looks and she was no longer poor. For the rest, she was as dogmatic and as mean of nature as ever he had known her to be.

  John’s mind was in such a turmoil that sleep was receding further and further away from him, and it was just as the clock downstairs struck two that he became aware that he was so wide awake that he wanted to get up. He looked at this feeling, as it were, and recognised with a wave of apprehension that it was the forerunner of… the state… which was how he had become to think of the feeling that always preceded his meetings with the Saint, and he protested loudly within himself. Not at two in the morning and with Florrie lying here, it would scare her out of her wits. He closed his eyes tightly. If he didn’t look at him and didn’t answer him what could he do? Nothing… nothing.

  As he lay feeling himself being lifted, reluctantly, onto a plane of well-being, he longed for the days when he hadn’t thought one way or the other about how he felt. Never having felt really bad, he had never questioned if he was feeling really well. One thing were certain, he had never experienced this alive feeling until… that state had started, and he had to concede that if it wasn’t for… the state… it would be a real fine way to feel. He couldn’t describe the feeling to himself other than it was like getting a kick out of something.

  ‘John.’ When the whisper came to him he refused to look.

  ‘John.’

  He had only to keep his eyes closed and his mouth shut and he would go.

  ‘John.’

  Oh God above. He turned on his side and right onto the edge of the bed but keeping his eyes still closed he whispered, ‘Go away, will you.’

  ‘I want you to come to the crossroads tomorrow morning around ten.’

  ‘All right, only go away, for God’s sake.’

  ‘What is it John, are you dreaming or something?’ Florrie was sitting up leaning over him and he turned to her with a great flounce and muttered as if coming out of a sleep, ‘Oh, aye, must have been dreamin’.’ Then he said solicitously, ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been asleep yet, why I thought you were long ago.’

  ‘I can’t sleep, John. I’m… I’m… so… so worried about you.’

  ‘Aw, Florrie.’

  Like a balloon that had been pricked, the airy feeling was seeping quickly away and he put his arms around her and drew her head onto his shoulder and comforted her as if she was a child. ‘There, there,’ he said. ‘Get yourself off to sleep now, and no more of it.’

  ‘And you, John.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll go to sleep an’ all, never fear.’

  And in a surprisingly short time they were both asleep and John was dreaming, not of St Christopher, but of McNally, and some time towards morning he woke with a wonderful feeling of achievement, for he had just returned home from burying him.

  ‘Joan, I’ve told you,’ said Florrie. ‘I don’t know where Arthur was last night. If he wasn’t with you, then I can’t tell you where he went.’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t with me and what’s more I’m beginning to have my suspicions.’ Joan wagged her head then jerked it around towards Gran as that lady said, ‘And who wouldn’t. Looks fishy if you ask me, eh?’

  ‘Gran, will you stay out of this.’

  Gran gave a hee-hee of a laugh as she split a pea pod and squirted the pea
s with a flick of her thumb into a basin. ‘If you don’t know where he is now you’ll have your work cut out when you get him.’

  ‘Well, I can tell you this much, Mrs Gascoigne.’ Joan was now addressing Gran. ‘The wedding’s all fixed and everything and if he doesn’t stop playing about I’ll…’

  ‘Aye, go on,’ said Gran. ‘Tell me what you’ll do.’ Her voice sounded ordinary and enquiring but it didn’t hoodwink Joan into thinking that she would receive any sympathy from the old woman.

  ‘I’d go easy, Joan, if I was you.’ Florrie’s voice was low. ‘Arthur’s a quiet lad. You might think he’s slow but he’s stubborn and he’s got a will of his own, so I’d go easy.’

  ‘My mother says—’

  ‘I’m not interested in what your mother says, Joan. I’m talking to you and I’m telling you if you want things to go smoothly, go easy on Arthur.’

  Florrie felt bound to give this advice but at the same time she was wishing that his absenteeism last night would result in a row of such proportions that the whole thing would be broken up. But she knew this was just wishful thinking; it would take more than that incident to break up the forthcoming marriage. In fact, she couldn’t see anything big enough happening to put it off.

  ‘How many of your relations have you invited to the weddin’?’ asked Gran, splitting open another pea pod.

  ‘Forty-five,’ said Joan pertly.

  ‘Oh.’ Gran wagged her head sideways. ‘Forty-five, and there’s only six of us. Seven,’ she added without any acidity in her tone for once, ‘with me sister Lucy. It doesn’t balance does it?’

  ‘Well, we are—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ put in Florrie sharply now. ‘You’re paying for it, and I know this too, all this bickering and fighting doesn’t say much for your future happiness, and I might as well tell you, I think Arthur’s wise to put it off for a while. At least until things settle down and we’re all seeing straight again!’

  Joan looked from Florrie to Gran then stretching her thin neck upwards she declared flatly, ‘Mother was right.’ And on that she marched out without adding anything more.