Linda’s reaction was one of wide amazement and indignation. Her dad had been divorced and yet he had gone on in that frantic way about Pat being divorced. After all, Pat’s wife was dead, she wasn’t still at large like he was. She was shocked that her dad had ever looked at another woman, and amazed too that he could have been married to a woman like this one. Smart and all that… And her mother, her mother had had another man. Well! She looked at her mother with new eyes. And she had had Arthur before she was married… Eeh! Who would have believed it? Arthur wasn’t really her brother now, only a half-brother. Would he hate her mam for it? She looked again at Florrie.
Florrie’s reactions were off, they even appeared so to herself for they were mostly made up of relief—as if a weight she had been carrying for years had suddenly jolted from her back. She was looking at Arthur appealingly, but Arthur would not meet her eyes. But this did not worry her unduly—later on when they were together she would talk to him and explain. Arthur would understand, whereas Frankie never would have. And yet Frankie was theirs, wholly theirs, hers and John’s. Her mind came back to John and she asked herself: would this business affect him one way or another? Would it shock him into sensibility or push him over the brink?
John was sitting at the table, still drumming his fingers on its edge; his head was lowered but he knew that some time, and soon, he would have to raise his eyes and meet those of his mother. She was standing, he knew, looking at him, side by side with Aunt Lucy, and again, as he had done as a child, he wished from the bottom of his heart that Aunt Lucy was his mother. Aunt Lucy always understood—there had never been any need to keep things from her.
Aunt Lucy’s reactions were ones of deep sadness. That the exposure should have come at this time of their lives saddened and worried her; worried her not so much because of the effect on Arthur, but on her own sister. She was very, very conscious of Mamie’s presence at this moment, and an old sore had been opened in her heart, for the story that had been disclosed was very like her own. She had been sweet on a lad and he on her. Then Mamie had come home on holiday from her place and she had never returned to it, for from the moment she saw Robbie she was determined to have him, and no snake charmer used more fascination and guile than she did. Poor Robbie could not withstand her and they were married in a hurry; Mamie saw to that. But before six months were up, Robbie came to her, almost with tears in his eyes, and begged her forgiveness and admitted that he would never have a chance in his life to make a bigger mistake than he had done in marrying Mamie. Poor Robbie, he couldn’t play any underhand games, he was too open, and for the remainder of his days he suffered for it. And now she knew that their Mamie was looking at her as if she could kill her.
And Aunt Lucy was right. Gran had the desire to knock Lucy to the floor. To think that all these years she had known about this whole affair and had never let on. She had always hated their Lucy, for she was soft and simpering and mealy-mouthed… without guts. She hadn’t had the guts to fight to keep her lad, and when she herself pulled him from between her teeth, she hadn’t lifted a finger to prevent her, nor yet said a word. Then Robbie… she had taunted him for years with Lucy’s name, and although he wouldn’t admit openly to wanting her, she knew all right where his thoughts were, and it had nearly driven her mad at times. The pain of those days returned into Gran’s withered chest. In one way, Lucy had lost Robbie to her, but in one way only—that was legally. In every other way she had him until the day he died, and not only him but his son. That had to be the bitterest pill of all to stomach, for from the time that the bairn could crawl he had shown an open preference for Lucy’s arms. From her own he would wriggle and struggle, but once he could get onto Lucy’s lap he would be quiet and fall asleep.
The sight of him in those days within Lucy’s arms had the power to drive her almost insane, for she was determined that if she didn’t have the love of her man, she was going to have it of her bairn. But, in spite of this determination, the more she fought the more it slipped away from her. John became like his father—silent, withdrawn, never answering back. That was the maddening part of living with them. Neither of them would answer back. Only in the last four years under John’s roof had he given her any retort and she had at this late stage taken a delight in taunting him into speech.
Gran was well aware of the traits in her own character; she knew that she must have the upper hand—she must rile, she must order, she had never been able to bear the thought of anything happening within the circle of her family without her knowledge. And she had always prided herself that nothing escaped her… Nothing escaped her? It was farcical, while all the time that solemn, dark-browed, close-lipped son of his father had been carrying on to get himself linked up with a piece like the one that was standing there in the middle of the room now. Not only to marry her, but to divorce her into the bargain… and she not to know a thing about it.
The boiling indignation within Gran rose to anger and the anger to wrath. She became ablaze with a fury against her son, and her sister, but mostly, at this moment, her son. At her back was the dresser, and on it Gran knew was a roll of newspaper, and inside the newspaper was a sheet of greaseproof paper, and inside that was some hard icing sugar that she had been pounding with the rolling pin that morning. Gran could never bear to throw anything away, and she had made it her business to roll out the hard sugar and sieve it again for Florrie to use, and there was the unfinished job behind her. Gran did not think of the icing sugar or the job. Her mind leapt straight to the utensil she had used for the grinding—the rolling pin. She was oblivious of Freda’s tongue rattling quickly on now, or of the startled jump that Lucy gave as she swung round to the dresser and tore open the paper. The rolling pin in her hand, she swung round to the table again and paused for only a split second as she looked into the startled eyes of her son as he made to rise from the table. Then, with the strength born of her angry passion—for her frail body alone could not have managed it—she brought the rolling pin crashing down on John’s forehead in exactly the same place where the ball had hit him a week ago.
John let out a loud wailing cry as his hands flew to his head, and as he was off balance when the blow was struck he fell to the floor, and even before he had touched it, pandemonium had broken loose.
Gran, the handle of the rolling pin still clenched in her bony fist, stood absolutely still while everybody, with the exception of Freda, rained abuse on her as they assisted John to his feet and bore him towards the couch.
‘You’re a wicked, wicked woman. You’ll get out of this house, you will.’ This, naturally, was from Florrie.
‘I hate you, Gran, I hate you. It’s you that’s mad. Look at the blood. Look what you’ve done. Oh, I do hate you.’ This, of course, was from Linda.
‘Get a bowl, get some water.’
Frankie and Arthur, running to obey this order of Florrie’s, collided and Frankie, having his feelings back for his restored parent, yelled at Gran, ‘You’ll look funny if he conks it.’
‘Oh… my… God.’ Each word expressed pain as John groaned them slowly out, and on the sound of them, Aunt Lucy was roused to turn on her sister. ‘Oh, you are wicked, our Mamie. Wicked, wicked.’
‘You shut up your mouth else I’ll give you a test of this an’ all. I’ve been wantin’ to do it for years. Anyway…’ Gran paused to consider for only a second. ‘Take that you two-faced deceiving old bitch.’ Her hand, not the one that held the rolling pin but the other, swung up and brought itself right across Lucy’s face to knock her staggering back against the dresser.
With Aunt Lucy’s pained cry came the voice of Freda saying sharply, ‘You want to hold your hand a bit, old lady, or they’ll lock you up.’
Gran turned on Freda a cold, terrifying stare. ‘You speakin’ to me?’
‘You know right well I am.’ Freda was indignant.
‘I just wanted to make sure. Now…’ Gran advanced slowly, the rolling pin still in her hand. ‘Get goin’ missus, out of this house af
ore I swipe you one an’ all, and not with me hand.’ Gran raised the rolling pin higher.
‘You just touch me and you’ll see what you’ll get, old as you are.’
‘Don’t tempt me.’ Gran still came on and Freda decided not to tempt her, but backed towards the door which led to the scullery, calling as she went, ‘Florrie, Florrie.’
‘She’s busy as you see—they’re all busy… The door’s on your left.’ Gran’s voice almost lifted the latch for Freda. The door was open and Freda was under the porch as she barked, ‘You’re a wicked old wife. You should be put away.’
‘Get goin’,’ said Gran. Now Gran was on the porch and her sharp eyes went to the gate at the bottom of the garden there to see Mr Duckworth and Joan making a hasty exit. What had they been after she wondered? Well, they’d had an earful she’d like to bet, and if they had heard all she’d heard, the wedding would certainly be off… and good luck to it.
‘No wonder John could never stand you.’
‘Get!’
The rolling pin jerking menacingly aloft emphasised Gran’s command and it definitely assisted Freda on her way out. Although, at the gate, after throwing one deadly look back at Gran, she managed to save her face from the peering neighbours by assuming a casual, even dignified, front, and sailed down the street as if the affair going on in number 12 had nothing whatsoever to do with her.
Back in the scullery, Gran closed the door and stood listening to the hubbub coming from the kitchen. She was trembling all over her old body; even her bones seemed to be jangling. Slowly, she moved towards the room and from the doorway she observed that everybody was busy. Florrie and Frankie were attending to John’s head, while Linda and Arthur were consoling Aunt Lucy. Determined to keep herself steady until she could reach a chair and sit down, Gran traversed half the kitchen. In doing this she had to pass close to Florrie and Florrie rounded on her, crying, ‘You’ll pay for this, Gran. I’ll never forgive you for this. Never.’
Gran said nothing, but walked on towards the table and the chair, but just as she had her hand on the back of the chair and was about to sit down the sound of grinding brakes brought her attention to the window, and there she saw one after the other two cars come to a halt. She stood upright a few seconds longer in order to see who alighted, then she sat down—or rather slid down—onto her chair. And after she had managed to stop her chin wobbling sufficiently to get her words out, she said with staccato briefness, and to no one in particular, ‘He’s come at the right time for once, an’ the magistrate with him, an’ we only want St Christopher now.’
‘What?’ Florrie sprang to the window, then looking up from it to John’s bleeding and discoloured forehead she exclaimed on a quick sigh, ‘Well, this is the only time I can say I’ve been pleased to see him. Open the door to the doctor, Linda.’
The doctor and Mr Fowler were not alone; with them, of all people, was Moira McNally. Why this should be no one asked and Moira offered no explanation, but like the two men, she stood gazing across the room to where John sat leaning back in the armchair, his face grey and streaming with the blood still running from the cut.
‘What’s happened now?’ It was the crisp tone of Dr Spencer, and Florrie, casting a swift glance in Gran’s direction, said stiffly, ‘He’s… he’s had a blow, doctor.’
The doctor was standing in front of John. ‘Had a blow? Good Lord, another, and on the same place. How did he get this?’
When no one spoke he glanced around the room and when his eyes met Gran’s defiant glare he said to himself, ‘Nonsense, she could never do this.’ He turned to John again and bending over him he touched the flesh round the cut, and under his touch John winced and the doctor asked hurriedly, ‘Hurt?’
‘Hurt?’ John’s eyes flicked up at him. ‘What do you think? That cricket bat wasn’t made of paste.’
The doctor’s eyes narrowed and he glanced up at Florrie and towards Mr Fowler who was standing on the other side of John’s chair, then he said quietly, ‘You were hit with a cricket ball.’
‘Aye, aye. Parson’s boundary, it came straight at me.’ John groaned again and put his hand up towards the rising mound but the doctor drew it away.
‘I’ll have to put a stitch in this.’ He turned to Moira. ‘Get me my bag from the car, Moira, will you?’ When Moira ran to do his bidding the doctor, glancing quickly at Florrie, said to John, ‘Well, how did you manage to get home all this way from the field like this?’
John went to shake his head but the action was too painful and he pressed his hand over his ear, then muttered, ‘Wife brought me, I think… I don’t know. I feel a bit dazed—my head feels as if it’s going to bust. Wait till I see the Reverend.’
The doctor turned from John and taking Florrie by the arm led her past the staring family and into the hall and there he whispered, ‘Tell me as briefly as possible how he came by this blow.’
Florrie had her eyes cast down as she said, ‘It was Gran. Some family business came up this afternoon, something that John did years ago. His first wife came here.’ Florrie raised her eyes to the doctor and saw that his eyebrows were moving upwards. ‘You see, he had never told his mother that he had been married afore—and divorced—and when she found out… well, she hit him with the rolling pin.’
For the first time in their acquaintance, Florrie saw the shadow of a smile flick across the doctor’s face but it was quickly gone and he said in a low tone, ‘Well, she’s likely done him a good turn. She’s wiped out the past week for evidently this blow has returned him to normality. Although I can’t be sure, mind, and for your sake I can only say that I am pleased, for my visit tonight was two-fold…’ He paused, drew in his breath, then said, ‘You know who Mr Fowler is, don’t you? He is a Justice of the Peace, I brought him to see your husband, but I’d also come with a startling piece of news, something to soften the blow if your husband had to go away for a short time. Although you might not have thought it much compensation.’
At this moment Moira came to the hall door saying, ‘I brought the bag, doctor.’
He nodded to her. ‘All right, Moira.’
‘Can I tell them now?’ Moira’s eyes were large and bright and her face was one wide beam, and it could not but bring a real smile to the doctor’s face as he said, ‘Yes, Moira, go on.’ Then touching Florrie, who stood dazed, lightly on the arm, he turned her about towards the kitchen again saying, ‘You’d better come and hear this and perhaps you’ll still look on it as compensation for all the harassing I’ve given you this week. For you see, I was the one who had to go and pick his ticket… Most strange, really strange.’
‘His ticket?’ Florrie looked back at the doctor in perplexity as she went before him into the kitchen.
‘Uncle John.’ Moira was bending over John, her hand on his shoulder, and without raising his head he said in his usual gruff manner, ‘Aye, what is it?’
‘You remember the ticket you bought off me for the raffle, Uncle John?’
‘Raffle?’ He raised his eyes painfully to her. ‘When did I get any tickets off you for a raffle?’ John spoke as if this was the last thing on earth he would have done.
‘Wednesday, Uncle John.’
‘You must be mistaken, lass.’ John’s voice was weary and impatient.
‘But you did, Uncle.’ Moira’s smile was slipping and she looked wildly round the room before returning her gaze to John and saying, ‘Try to think; think where you put them. Your name’s on the counterfoil but you’ve got to have the ticket to show.’
Not being able to put his hand on the front of his head, John placed it on the back and, screwing up his eyes against the pain, he said, ‘Look, lass, I’m in no mood to talk about raffle tickets, can’t you see that.’
‘But you’ve won a car, Uncle John.’
John’s hand came off the back of his head, his eyes widened and he stared up into Moira’s face and said very slowly, ‘A car, in a raffle… Me?’
Moira nodded happily again.
�
�But I can’t even remember buying any tickets for a raffle, a car raffle.’
‘It was the hospital’s raffle, remember? And first prize was a car. The Ridley firm were giving it, and you’ve won it, Uncle John, out of all the thousands and thousands, you’ve won it. And who d’you think picked your ticket?’ She pushed him playfully in the arm. ‘You’ll never guess.’ She flicked her glance full of amusement over her shoulder. ‘The doctor himself.’
‘Oh, aye.’ John moved his eyes towards the doctor. ‘You picked me ticket in a raffle, sir?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so, Mr Gascoigne, and I must be honest and admit I wasn’t very happy at the time about it, but now, well… the way things have turned out I can only be very pleased for you.’
‘But me with a car? What can I do with a car?’ Painfully John looked from one to another and for the first time in days there was laughter in the kitchen. It came from Frankie; it came from Linda; it came from Moira; it came from Mr Fowler; and although he was still suffering from shock, Arthur’s laugh too joined the rest. Only Aunt Lucy, Gran and Florrie did not laugh. Florrie was too dazed, too relieved to let her feelings run freely yet. Aunt Lucy was too hurt, not by the actual blow that Mamie had given her, but the fact that her sister had struck her. And Gran. Gran did not laugh for she knew that her name would be mud in this house henceforth. She had hit Aunt Lucy, who was the apple of everybody’s eye, but most of all she had struck her son a great blow that had split his head open. Nobody would say it was the best turn she could have done him. She had thought to herself the other day, ‘If he got a hair of the dog that bit him, so to speak, and another knock there, it might pull him to his senses.’ But she hadn’t been able to get up enough courage to do it in cold blood, and she didn’t think she would ever have been able to do it if she hadn’t been provoked beyond her endurance.
But would she be thanked for it? Most certainly not. But what did she care? Let them get on with it. Look at them running round like scalded cats looking for the ticket. She hoped they would never find it. But Frankie’s voice at that moment, yelling from upstairs, told her that it had been found, and when he came dashing into the kitchen and held the three tickets out to John, Gran thought, ‘He can’t remember a damn thing about them. He hasn’t a thought in his head of what’s happened since the cricket ball hit him.’ And again she said to herself, ‘And they’ll give me no thanks for it.’
Saint Christopher and the Gravedigger Page 21
