Saint Christopher and the Gravedigger

by Catherine Cookson

‘John, John, stop it. Come away in.’

  John withdrew his head and, speaking calmly again, said, ‘Aye, I’ll come away in.’ Whereupon he closed the window and returned to the table. As he sat down, the voice of Mr Duckworth could still be heard shouting as he retreated from the garden, and John, looking round his family, asked, ‘Which one of us do you think needs to see the doctor now, eh?’

  Still nobody spoke, not even Gran. For this John Gascoigne was a very unknown quantity.

  The tea was eaten in a strange, unnatural silence, and when it was over and John rose from the table and seated himself in the easy chair with the paper, Florrie gave a warning shake of her head to the rest of the family that told them to go about their business and take no notice; and this the majority of them did. Arthur and Frankie going upstairs to change, Linda helping to clear the table, but Gran… Gran did none of the things she usually did at this time of the evening but she continued to sit at the table and tap it with her forefinger from time to time while she stared unblinkingly at her son.

  John was not unaware of his mother’s fixed gaze, and after a time he became fidgety under it. He had a strong urge to take himself upstairs to bed, for he was feeling very tired. There was no elation about him now, and though he often felt tired after a day’s work, tonight there was a heavy weariness about him as if he had been working for days without sleep. It was just as he had decided he was going to bed that there came a rap on the back door and for a moment some of the feeling of weariness fled. Duckworth back? As he met Florrie’s apprehensive glance he rose from the chair saying, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll deal with him, and there’ll be no rows.’ And again he repeated, ‘Don’t worry.’ But as he went to open the back door some higher sense told him he would not find Duckworth there and when he saw Broderick he was not surprised.

  ‘Oh, hullo there, John. I thought I’d look round to see how you were farin’?’

  ‘I’m farin’ perfectly well, thank you,’ said John stiffly, but quietly, for the weary feeling was heavy on him and he found to his dismay he would not be able to deal with Broderick as he had done this morning.

  ‘And how’s our friend and neighbour?’ Broderick was leaning towards John, his big arms outstretched to each side of the door, and his head wagging with suppressed laughter. ‘I thought I would have died,’ Broderick whispered hoarsely. ‘I’ve never seen anything so funny in me life. The dignified Duckworth, spluttering in that heap of cement—the only thing I prayed for at that moment was rain. They’ve never stopped talking about it on the road the whole day.’

  ‘I’m glad they got a laugh,’ said John flatly.

  ‘Laugh!’ repeated Broderick. ‘Turner, you know Dick Turner? Well, he said to me that he never thought you had it in you and I said to him, “Ha ha.” I said, “You don’t know the depths of John Gascoigne with or without saints.” But I admitted, John, that if seeing saints gives a man courage such as yours I’d see saints the morrow meself.’

  ‘Perhaps I could arrange something for you.’

  The roar that Broderick let out rang down the back gardens and it brought Florrie from her waiting position in the kitchen to John’s side, and she spoke to him as if Broderick was not there. ‘Are you comin’ to get your wash?’ she said.

  ‘Aye.’ John turned about and, taking the loophole she had given him for escape, left her standing confronting Broderick, and Broderick, bending his great length down to her, whispered, ‘He’s himself, Florrie, as ever was. Begod, it’s strange, isn’t it? If you had seen him up at the crossroads this mornin’, you wouldn’t have believed your eyes. But it’s glad I am…’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know you are, Broderick. And now I’ve got things to see to and if you’ll excuse me…’

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand and if there’s anything I can do, or my Katie, you’ve only got to come next door, you know that. We’re not like those stink-pits.’ He thumbed in the direction of the Duckworths. ‘Y’know something I heard?’ His voice dropped lower. ‘He’s for putting the wedding off all on account of this mornin’. Mind you,’ he winked at Florrie, ‘not that it wouldn’t be pleasing some parties and them not a long spit from either of us.’

  ‘Well, that’ll be for the Duckworths and Arthur to decide,’ said Florrie stiffly. ‘Now if you’ll…’

  Broderick backed two or three steps, holding up his hand as if in blessing. ‘All right, all right, Florrie, I’m off. But remember what I told you—rely on me if you want help. I’m just next door.’

  When Florrie closed the back door, she stood for a moment staring at it. Yes, he was just next door and she knew it, for in some way she laid the blame for John’s condition on Broderick’s shoulders. Over the years they had lived near to each other he had never stopped pulling John’s leg and it must have become unbearable. She got fed up listening to it herself sometimes.

  When she returned to the kitchen John was not there, but Gran was still at the table tapping away with her fingers. She looked at her daughter-in-law and said, ‘I’ve a good mind to do it.’

  ‘Do what?’ asked Florrie without much interest.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Gran enigmatically. Whereupon Florrie sighed, and turned to where Arthur stood at the far side of the kitchen dressed for out, but it was Linda who put the question she was thinking at that moment to him. ‘Are you going to see Joan tonight?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ Arthur avoided the eyes upon him.

  ‘You’d better be prepared for high jinks then,’ warned Linda.

  ‘I’m prepared all right,’ said Arthur.

  ‘She’ll likely be the one to call the whole thing off now.’

  Before Arthur could answer his sister, Gran put in, ‘Then we’ll all be pleased, won’t we?’ She asked the question of him and he turned to her and, giving her a straight look, said, ‘Aye, Gran, we’ll all be pleased.’ Then, going to Florrie, he murmured quietly, ‘In any case, Mam, I won’t be late and Frankie’s staying in… Don’t worry.’

  Florrie just nodded in answer and she remained quiet until Linda, putting the last of the dishes away, said, as if talking to herself, ‘I don’t like that Dr Spencer. He seems bent on getting at Dad, rushing around the lanes in his car trying to pick him up. Pat says young doctors are…’ The name had slipped out and with it Linda’s voice trailed to a guilty stop, giving herself away.

  Slowly, Florrie turned to her daughter. ‘When did you see Pat? You’ve been at the shop all day and him at work.’

  Cornered, Linda blinked, then said, ‘Well, I ran across him at lunchtime and he told me he had seen Moira out with the Spencer children and she had told him.’

  ‘Your path crosses Pat McNally’s quite a bit these days, so it seems.’ Gran was staring at Linda, and now Florrie, remembering the way Linda had been getting herself up lately, cried, ‘Linda, you’re not…’

  ‘No, Mam, I’m not.’ Linda flounced round from the cupboard. ‘Surely I can speak to Pat. I just met him and I spoke that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Florrie’s voice sounded apologetic but as she turned away and went upstairs, she was crying to herself, ‘No, no, not Linda and Pat and him thirty and divorced into the bargain… I’ve got enough to put up with, not this now.’

  When she opened the bedroom door and saw that John was not only in bed but asleep, really asleep for he was snoring gently, she turned quickly and went into the lavatory and there, locking herself in, she pressed her face into her apron and gave way to a bout of weeping. After having her cry-out she went into the bathroom and washed her face, then, composing herself, she returned downstairs. She had a number of jobs she should do but she had no inclination to tackle any of them, so she sat in John’s chair and closed her eyes and for Gran’s benefit pretended she was dozing.

  Perhaps she did doze for when Gran’s voice said, ‘D’you hear that?’ she sat up with a start. Gran’s eyes were directed towards the ceiling and when Florrie listened she could hear unmistakably now the low murmur of John’s voice. Her hand went to her throat
and she forced herself up from her chair and out of the room. When she reached the landing, Frankie was standing at his door and he whispered, ‘He’s been on like that for some time.’

  Florrie said nothing, but moved slowly to the bedroom door, Frankie close behind her, and when she pushed the door open, there was John. He was sitting on the side of the bed in his shirt, his hand outstretched to someone and he was speaking very airily as he said, ‘It’s a bargain then, shake on it. You do that for me and I’ll do as you ask. I’ll get one as soon as I can. It’ll take some time but I’ll do it. There, how’s that?’

  Florrie watched John’s hand pumping up and down in a vigorous handshake and she saw his head go back and heard him laugh with a gaiety that was foreign to him. Then, still laughing, he said, ‘By gum, that’ll be the day; that’ll shake ’em, eh?’

  A chill passed over her body. She had a weird, turbulent feeling in the vicinity of her stomach and for a moment she felt she was going to see what John was seeing—that there was someone besides themselves in the room. A sweat was breaking out on her, and she felt sick. When she found herself sliding down by the door, she knew she was going to faint, and the last thing she heard was the loud frightened voice of Frankie shouting, ‘Gran! Gran!’

  It was the following morning and Arthur and Frankie were downstairs getting themselves ready for work without the assistance of their mother who, after the business of last night, was having a lie-in.

  Arthur’s face was particularly gloomy, for besides worrying over his dad and now his mother, the situation with Joan had taken a retrograde step—at least, so it appeared to him. For she had not disdainfully thrown the ring at him last night because his father had hit her father. No, on the advice of her mother, she was overlooking the whole business and she was forgiving his father and himself and the whole family for their very odd behaviour of late. Last night when Mr Duckworth had come roaring to their door he’d had great hope that this would split the affair between him and Joan like a blow from an axe, but all it had done was to bind him more firmly.

  Arthur put the bacon in the frying pan with the skin on, for he couldn’t be bothered to cut it off like his mother did. Anyway, he concluded, he didn’t want any bacon. When a ring came on the front door he said, ‘That’s the postman; see to it, will you?’

  Frankie put down the knife with which he was cutting the bread and went heavily to the front door. He too was worried and about many things. About his dad, for he was sure going balmy; and then there was the woman; and now his mum; also his motorbike. And, added to it all, the niggling, secret worry surrounding this feeling for Moira McNally.

  There was only one letter on the mat and he picked it up and glanced at it casually. Then, his eyes screwing up, he muttered the address to himself—‘Mr John Gascoigne, Twenty-four Dudley Street, Downfell Hurst…’ Mr John Gascoigne… all the letters that came here were addressed to Mr and Mrs Gascoigne. Aunt Lucy always wrote like that and Mam’s cousin in York addressed her envelope in the same way. Those were the only two people who ever wrote to Mam and Dad. He was still looking at the envelope when he reached the kitchen and without lifting his eyes from it, he said to Arthur, ‘Here a minute.’

  Arthur, looking over his shoulder, asked shortly, ‘What is it?’

  ‘A letter addressed to Dad. You know something…’ Frankie paused. ‘It’s from that woman. Look.’ His voice became excited; he was playing detective again. ‘It’s got the Hexham postmark on it. See. I bet you a bob it’s from her.’

  Arthur was now looking at the envelope in Frankie’s hand. ‘Aye, well, if it is, what can we do about it?’ he said.

  ‘I know what I’m going to do about it.’ Frankie went to the stove, where the kettle was steaming.

  ‘Here!’ Arthur pulled at his arm. ‘You’re not going to open it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, because…’ Arthur paused. ‘It isn’t your letter. It doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘Doesn’t it? Me dad carrying on with another woman and him up the pole into the bargain. Me mam conking out like she did last night and scaring the wits out of me, and you say it’s not my business… our business… It’s the business of everybody in this house to know what he’s up to. Because after what I saw last night it won’t be long afore he’s in the loony bin.’

  Arthur said no more but stood helplessly by as Frankie steamed open the envelope. In many ways, he recognised that Frankie was more forceful than himself. He watched him unfold two sheets of paper, and in growing surprise he saw his face slowly drop into an amazed gape. Then, the letter in his hand, he watched Frankie drop into a chair. ‘God’s truth.’ It was so like a McNally ejaculation that Arthur could have smiled, but this was not the moment for smiling. He pulled the letter roughly from Frankie’s hand, and now he too read it. It went:

  Dear John,

  After you left the other night, I felt pretty sore. I was determined to come over and confront Florrie for I didn’t see, and by the way I still don’t see, that I’m being unreasonable. I told you I could come over as an old friend, and over a cup of tea, perhaps, I could have met the boy and spoken to him. I don’t expect you to understand this for you don’t know what it’s like to be deprived of a child. Anyway, I did make my way to Downfell Hurst today with the purpose of seeing Florrie and then something happened. I had just got off the bus and was going to enquire the way to your house from the man at the garage when I heard one man say to another, young Gascoigne’s gone tearing round there to have a look at that bike again, so I stood to one side and waited, and then I saw him and I recognised him immediately, John. There was no mistaking him. He was in a tearing hurry or I would have spoken to him on some pretext or another. Now the situation is that since I have seen him I want to get to know him more than ever. It’s such a simple thing that I’m asking. He needn’t know anything whatever about it if you and Florrie act sensibly.

  If I don’t hear from you I’ll make it my business to pay you a call, say Saturday.

  The letter ended briefly with the name Freda, and the abruptness gave to the last line an ominous foreboding suggestion.

  When Arthur lifted his eyes from the letter it was to see Frankie looking lead-coloured and rather sick, and his glibness seemed to have deserted him, for when he spoke he spluttered, ‘You… you… see… see what this means? That woman is… is me mother.’

  Yes, Arthur saw, and he was shaken; shaken to the core by the fact that his father could have given another woman a child and this child could be Frankie. Frankie turned on him, words pouring from him now, although he still looked dazed. ‘I knew it. I’ve known all along. I’m different from the rest of you; always have been. I’m always wanting to talk and none of you do, except Dad now, and he’s off his nut.’

  Now Frankie beat a fist into the palm of his hand and he stretched his meagre thin height to mannish proportions. He was a man; he was a man who had found out his origins. He stalked about the kitchen. It did not seem big enough for his striding, which took him into the scullery and back again. But his reactions were very genuine when he stopped once again and confronted Arthur, saying quietly now, ‘Y’know he’s never liked me.’

  ‘That’s daft,’ said Arthur, not really knowing what to say. ‘You’re talking through the top of your hat.’

  ‘He’s never liked me, I tell you. If he’s ever done any talking it’s been to you. Has he ever told me anything?’

  ‘Well, there’s been nothing to tell.’

  ‘Nothing to tell? Huh! That’s rich. But I didn’t mean about this. I mean has he ever talked to me about anything—games or anything else—like he has to you? No, you’ve got to admit it, and it’s funny.’ Frankie turned his head sideways and seemed to be looking back over the past as he said, more to himself than to Arthur, ‘I was talking to me mother about something like this once, and I said I wasn’t like any of you and you know what, she started to cry and she said I was like Gran… Gran!’ He turned quickly to Arthur again, his voic
e a whisper now. ‘Look, our Arthur,’ he was beginning when…

  ‘Haven’t you got your breakfast yet?’

  They almost left the floor as they turned to confront Florrie as she entered the kitchen noiselessly in her slippers. It was Arthur who murmured hurriedly, ‘We’re just getting it, Mam.’ Then he added, ‘How d’you feel?’

  ‘I’m feeling all right.’ She looked at Frankie and the letter in his hand and asked without much interest, ‘You’ve had a letter, Frankie?’

  ‘Aye… Yes.’ He brought the ‘yes’ out on a gasp as if he had been holding his breath. Then, as he folded the letter quickly up and put it back in the envelope, he said, ‘Yes, yes, I’ve had a letter.’

  Frankie stared at this woman and as he stared he experienced an indescribable feeling—a kind of vast emptiness. She wasn’t his mother. He had lived with her all these years, and she was the only one in the house who he could talk to or who really wanted to listen to him, for she always listened to him, and had always been nice to him, and she wasn’t his mother. She had done it out of kindness. His father, like most of the men in the war, had got himself into a fix with some girl and his mother had taken him… But she wasn’t his mother, this woman was no relation to him. He watched Florrie turn swiftly from him, saying, ‘Oh, the bacon, it smells burned to a cinder.’ She lifted the pan, exclaiming, ‘Oh, look at that. Oh, look at that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mam.’ Arthur too was looking at the pan now and he added, ‘Anyway I didn’t want any bacon.’

  ‘But Frankie will.’

  ‘No,’ put in Frankie in a voice that had a falsetto note. ‘No, I don’t want any. I don’t want any breakfast at all.’

  Florrie looked from one to the other and thought she understood, and not feeling up to the business of coping with pressing them to eat, she just said, ‘Oh, very well then.’

  It wasn’t unusual for the brothers to leave the house together and when fifteen minutes later they were in the street, Arthur muttered under his breath, ‘That letter, how are you going to get it to Dad now?’