Saint Christopher and the Gravedigger

by Catherine Cookson

  Linda found herself tongue-tied before this smart woman, for so Freda appeared to her, and it crossed her mind, ‘Fancy Aunt Lucy ever having a friend like this.’ She was glad they had a visitor for now Mam couldn’t start on her—at least not right away. Linda found she was blushing at the compliment, and in embarrassment she turned to her mother and said, ‘Tea not ready yet?’ She didn’t really want any tea, she told herself she was too unhappy to eat. What was more, she had had no intention of speaking to her mother, for earlier on they had parted on anything but cordial terms. But it was the only thing she could think of to say for the woman was staring at her.

  ‘It’s on its way.’ Florrie went slowly to a drawer and took out the tablecloth and Aunt Lucy got to her feet and went to the dresser and began to collect the crockery. While they were doing this, Freda addressed herself solely to Linda. She talked about clothes and at one point, after asking who was her favourite TV star, she showed her astonishment with a loud ‘No’ when she discovered that they did not possess a television.

  Florrie, catching Aunt Lucy’s eye, asked silently, ‘What am I to do?’ But Aunt Lucy could give her no help, she could only shake her head as if she herself was utterly bewildered.

  Aunt Lucy’s head had scarcely stopped moving when it jerked upwards on the sound of Gran’s door closing overhead. Florrie did not look up but she took the bread knife and began to slice at the loaf rapidly. She did not turn round as Gran entered the room, saying, ‘Who was that at the front door… Oh!’

  Gran had the answer before her and she stared at it. Her eyes narrowed. Who was this piece? She had never seen anybody like her in this house afore. She looked towards Florrie where she was slowly turning from the cupboard.

  ‘This is a friend of mine, Gran, a Mrs Manning. This is my husband’s mother.’ As Florrie made a compulsory introduction, she was aware of Linda’s puzzled gaze fixed on her and she could feel the question… Whose friend is she? I thought she was Aunt Lucy’s.

  Gran noticed that Florrie had used the word husband and not John to this friend of hers so when the woman stood up and said, ‘Pleased to meet you, John’s mother, well now’, Gran’s eyes narrowed still further and it was with evident reluctance that she allowed her hand to be taken by the flabby ring-bedecked white one.

  Gran said nothing to the greeting. She did not say anything until she had sat down opposite the visitor and then she asked quietly, ‘How is it I’ve never seen you afore, if you’re a friend of Florrie’s?’

  ‘Well now, Mrs Gascoigne, I can easily explain that. You see we’ve lived at opposite ends of the country.’ Freda’s voice had risen, it always did when she spoke to the old, and Gran raised her hand and flapped it in her direction, saying loudly, ‘There’s no need for you to bellow, I’m not deaf, I’ve all me faculties left, hearin’ included.’

  Obviously Freda was a little taken aback by this virile attitude in one who looked so old and frail and she muttered the usual apology of her type: ‘Sorry, I’m sure.’

  ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Mrs Manning, Freda Manning.’ Freda’s voice was stiff and her manner weighed down with dignity now.

  Gran nodded, her eyes still screwed up, then she commented to no one in particular, ‘Never heard your name mentioned in this house afore. Funny…’ She turned to Florrie who was back at her breadboard. ‘Never heard you mention your friend afore, Florrie.’

  Laying the knife down with a deliberate movement, Florrie turned and looked straight at Gran. ‘You’ve only been with us four years, Gran, and I didn’t think you’d be interested.’

  Gran’s chin moved out. ‘Four years is a long time and there’s nothin’ much that I didn’t know afore that I haven’t learnt in four years.’

  ‘Does it matter? Is it so important?’ Florrie’s voice was rising and Gran, turning her gaze full on the guest, said in an off-hand tone, ‘Well, no, I don’t suppose it is, not all that.’

  Gran’s words and tone were plainly meant to carry offence but Freda told herself that she wasn’t going to be riled by an old bitch like this. But she could understand quite plainly now why John had kept the knowledge of their marriage from his mother. By, yes. If they had met in those days, they would have torn each other’s eyes out. She was beginning to enjoy herself—the whole situation appealed to her and she was looking forward with a rising excitement to the climax. She approached it now by asking of Florrie, ‘How are the boys?’

  For a second Florrie’s hand became still on the board, and when she continued her slicing she said, ‘They’re very well.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ This straight question could come from no other than Gran, and Freda, smiling fixedly at her, said, ‘Oh, quite near now. I was just telling Florrie I’ve had a bungalow built in Biddleswiddle.’

  There followed a silence that was heavy, then Gran shattered it by asking, ‘Which of them did you know first, John or Florrie, here?’

  ‘Oh, our Mamie, what a question to ask.’

  ‘Who’s speaking to you, Lucy Travers? It’s a simple enough question. You mind your own business.’

  Freda flicked her eyes downward, gave a little hick of a laugh, then looking at Gran with her head cocked on one side, she exclaimed, ‘Well, since you ask, it was John… Satisfied?’

  ‘No, I ain’t since… since you ask.’

  ‘Why are you keeping on, Gran? Give over, behave will you.’ Florrie stood now with a plate of bread in her hand, glaring at Gran.

  ‘There ain’t no harm in asking a question, is there, if she’s a friend of John’s… and yours.’ She paused before the ‘and’ then asked, ‘Does she know the state he’s in?’ Before Florrie could answer one way or the other, Gran turned her head to Freda and stated, ‘He’s goin’ off his head.’

  ‘Stop it, Gran, do you hear, stop it. I’ll have no more of it.’ It looked for a moment as if Florrie might deposit the plate of bread and butter on Gran’s head.

  ‘Who’s going off his head?’ asked Freda with eyebrows raised. ‘You don’t mean John, surely? He’d be the last to go off his head.’

  ‘John isn’t well, that’s all. He had a blow and it’s made him a bit off colour.’ Florrie put the plate on the table none too gently.

  ‘Oh,’ said Freda looking puzzled. The ‘oh’ was repeated by Gran under her breath. ‘Oh,’ she said looking down at her gnarled hands. She didn’t like this one. She didn’t like this woman who was painted up like a street whore, and when she didn’t like people she wanted to get at them, and what was more there was something fishy here. Why hadn’t she heard her name mentioned in the house? And not in all her born days could she imagine Florrie having a friend such as her. And hadn’t the one just admitted that it was John she knew first. Gran shook her head at this. Stretch her imagination as she would, she couldn’t see her son ever having the gumption to even speak to a piece like this one. Aye, there was something so fishy here she could smell it. But she would get to the bottom on it, aye, she would that.

  ‘Oh, John!’

  On this trembling exclamation, Gran’s eyes swung up to see Florrie hurrying to the doorway where stood her son, his face the colour of lead and the shape of his mouth lost, so tightly was his jaw compressed.

  John was not looking at Florrie, he was looking beyond her and he put her gently aside when she stood dead in front of him. He had been feeling himself for some time now and had decided that he would come downstairs so that if the doctor fellow did arrive after tea he would find his mistake out. He would find him calm and casual. But the sight of Freda sitting in his kitchen there was bolting through him such a wave of anger that it was all he could do not to rush at her, take her by the scruff of the neck and fling her out of the door.

  ‘Hullo there, John.’ Freda was on her feet and walking towards him. ‘Long time no see.’ She accompanied this phrase with a slight wink.

  John, on the very point of speaking, caught the look in his mother’s eyes. They were tight fastened on him, s
peculative and probing, and they gave him warning that he must watch his step for if she found out about this business he would never live it down until the day she died. So all he allowed himself to say was ‘Hullo’, and this was something akin to a growl.

  Aye, aye. Gran gave herself another small nod. What had she said? She was right. He had looked startled out of his wits. Before long she would be learning things or her name wasn’t Mamie Gascoigne.

  ‘Tea’s nearly ready.’ Florrie made a gallant effort to ease the situation and she spoke to Linda who was sitting staring, as if fascinated, at Freda, saying, ‘Will you put the cakes out while I mash the tea?’ As she walked from the table amid the tense silence that had fallen on the room, her thoughts yelled at her. What if she talks? Florrie saw her house disintegrating about her. Suddenly her thinking stopped and she turned her eyes towards the kitchen window. When she saw them coming towards the gate—both Arthur and Frankie—the teapot nearly slipped from her hands to the floor.

  Why were they here at this time? Arthur had gone off to Battonbun to play in the return match. In the usual way he would not have been in before eight this evening at the earliest, and Frankie’s last mumbled words had been, ‘I don’t know when I’ll be in.’ Which meant, or usually did, that he wouldn’t be returning to tea either and she could expect him when she saw him. And now, here they were. Instead of her mind getting into a mad flurry, it became quiet. She felt cold, even numb. Things were galloping beyond her control.

  She placed the teapot on the stand, then looking at John and addressing him slowly and distinctly, she said, ‘The boys are coming.’

  On this John rose steadily to his feet and walked towards the window, but before reaching it he stopped and turning to look at Freda he said quietly, ‘My sons will be in in a minute, I would like you to meet them.’

  His sons, oh, there was summat funny here. Gran’s chin was moving steadily, steadily outwards. His sons… Now that was an odd way to say that the lads were coming in and to supposedly an old friend of his and Florrie’s. His sons. Gran’s eyes became smaller as her face screwed up with her thinking.

  It was Arthur who came into the kitchen first and he took the situation in immediately. It was just as Frankie had said it would happen. He hadn’t believed him, but, by God, he had been right. He stared at the visitor, and as he stared he had a sudden feeling of pity for Frankie. Lord, she was flashy and caked with paint. Frankie’s description had been correct: mutton aping to be lamb. And what mutton. He looked towards his dad to find out that he was looking at him, staring at him. He had a sort of lost, hurt look about him, yet at the same time he was bristling. He looked as if Uncle Brod had been at him—that kind of look. He felt Frankie standing by his side now and his pity mounted. Then his dad spoke.

  ‘This is a friend of mine and your mother’s… Mrs Manning.’

  John was looking at Arthur but it was Frankie who answered, staring straight at his father as he did so.

  ‘Oh, you can come off it,’ he said. ‘I know who she is all right. There’s no need to beat about the bush any longer.’

  To say that everyone in the room was startled was to put it mildly. They all directed their gaze upon Frankie, but Frankie was looking only at his father and his thin face looked pinched and hard.

  ‘She’s me mother and I know all about it, and you can stop your playactin’.’

  An absolute stunned silence followed this statement and the expressions on all the faces in the kitchen were wide and agape. All that is, except Gran’s, and hers was screwed up almost to a button now.

  ‘What’s up with you, boy? Don’t be silly.’ Florrie’s voice sounded like a squeak as she moved quickly towards him and when she stood in front of him shutting out the figure of John, Frankie turned his head to one side and muttered, ‘It’s no use you talkin’.’

  ‘Look at me, boy. I’m your mother.’

  Frankie, still with his head turned from her, muttered, ‘It’s no use, I tell you.’

  Now Florrie turned her wild distracted gaze towards Freda, and Freda was smiling. The situation was to her liking. She stood twisting one of the large rings on her fingers as she looked at Frankie and she cocked her head archly to one side as she said, ‘I wish what you were saying was true, Arthur. I would give one hand and one foot to make it true.’

  Frankie dragged his gaze towards her and his eyes were questioningly narrowed as he said quietly, ‘I’m not Arthur, I’m Frankie.’

  The smile slid from Freda’s face as she cast a swift glance between Frankie and Arthur, then giving a hicking laugh she said, ‘Oh well, I thought…’ The laugh was repeated. ‘My, my, so you’re not Arthur…’ Turning slowly now she looked at Arthur and in a matter of seconds she watched him turn two tones paler.

  As if a miracle had taken place, the weight of anxiety and disgrace, as Frankie thought of it, had been lifted from him and transferred to Arthur. Frankie looked at his brother. Arthur had insisted that the whole business was nothing to worry about, but look at him now. He looked the colour of a sheet and he was backing towards the wall as if trying to get away from this thing that had come upon him.

  ‘What’s all this about anyway?’ It was John’s voice, harsh and loud, demanding an explanation.

  ‘He thought I was his mother, fancy that.’ Freda was addressing herself to John. ‘I wonder how that’s come about.’

  ‘I’m… Arthur Gascoigne… Are you me mother?’ Arthur, with the support of the wall behind him and his eyes popping from his head, was staring at Freda, and Freda looking back at him and, about to speak, was interrupted by a cry from Florrie. ‘No, she’s not your mother, Arthur. I’m your mother.’

  ‘Are you me mother?’ Arthur was still appealing to Freda and ignoring Florrie, who was standing at his side now.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ Freda was acting entirely to pattern.

  At this point there came the sound of what might have been a knock on the door, but nobody took any notice of it for John’s voice burst on them in a great bellow, crying, ‘Stop this bloody nonsense.’ With a push to right and left, he thrust Frankie to one side and Freda to the other and stood dead opposite Arthur and, in a tone hardly less quiet, he said, pointing to Florrie, ‘That’s your mother there. She’s your mother, but…’ He paused. ‘I’m not your father… There now’—he swung round to Freda—‘I hope you’re happy.’

  ‘You can’t blame me.’

  ‘Can’t blame you! Why the hell are you here?’

  ‘I told you in my letter I would come if you didn’t show up.’

  ‘Your letter?’

  ‘I opened the letter.’

  They were all looking at Frankie again.

  ‘You opened a letter addressed to me?’ John’s voice was a low growl.

  ‘Aye, I did, because I knew you were going and seeing her,’ Frankie said boldly, jerking his head towards Freda.

  John drew his hand across his mouth, then cast a swift glance towards Florrie and she held it for a moment, questioningly, until he drew it away towards Arthur again. Arthur looked sick, very sick, and John said, ‘I’m sorry for this, lad, it need never have happened, but since it has you’d better know the lot.’ He turned about and moved towards the table, but purposely kept the breadth of it between him and his mother. Then, taking a seat, he drummed his fingers on the table edge a moment before saying, ‘I was married afore and this’—he gave a little jerk of his head towards Freda—‘was me first wife.’

  There wasn’t a sound in the kitchen yet the whole room seemed to be vibrating.

  Then Arthur’s voice, very low, broke in asking, ‘And what about me?’

  John raised his eyes to him as he said firmly, ‘Your mother was married afore an’ all.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  Florrie was facing her son now, and speaking to him alone. ‘I was to be married but this woman’—Florrie turned an accusing eye on Freda—‘who was at the time John’s wife, took him away from me. They went off together
and when John’s divorce came through he married me. And there you have it. I’m your mother, all right, but Dad isn’t your father. Your father was George Manning and because of that this woman wanted you when you were a baby. She pestered me to have you. That’s why we came to this village, to get away from her. Aunt Lucy got your dad the job of sexton.’ Florrie was now looking towards Freda and, talking more at her than to her, she said, ‘And why she wanted to come back at this stage for what I don’t know. Only to cause trouble. And you’ve done that, haven’t you?’ She now addressed Freda pointedly. ‘And I hope it’s made you happy.’

  It is true to say that no two reactions to this disclosure of any of those in the room were alike. With Frankie, his relief was unbounded. He felt he’d had a reprieve of some sort from a life shadowed by the stigma of shame. That it should have been passed on to Arthur, he was sorry, but then, hadn’t Arthur said the past was past and one shouldn’t worry about it. Well, how was he going to take his own advice now? He looked towards Arthur.

  Arthur’s mind was in a state of chaos, but it was running one clear thought. Of the two he’d rather have it this way. Yes, he knew he would much rather have it that John wasn’t his father than that Freda was his mother. Yet he just couldn’t take it in because all his life he had identified his ways with those of this man, thinking, ‘I take after Dad.’ He knew he was quiet inside like his dad; he had principles, he knew, like his dad, or the man he thought of as Dad; whereas Frankie, who was really Dad’s son, wasn’t a bit like him. He now began to doubt that it could possibly be. Everything pointed to Frankie being the odd man out. But then he was the elder, he couldn’t get away from that, and this fact did away with the idea of any loophole. He felt lost somehow, a bit sick and lost; he didn’t think he’d ever feel right again, not really. And what would Moira say? Well, not anything like what Joan would say, of that he was sure. If he still needed something to scare off the Duckworths, this was it at least, he thought dolefully.