Saint Christopher and the Gravedigger

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Well, we’d better get this head seen to.’ The doctor’s voice rose above the hubbub, but John’s voice came back at him saying, ‘Just a minute, doctor, have you got her here?’

  ‘Yes, she’s outside. Mr Fowler brought her along for you.’

  ‘Could I see it, sir?’ John was pushing himself to the edge of his chair.

  ‘She’s your car, Mr Gascoigne.’ Mr Fowler was smiling blandly. He was amused; he had not been so amused for years. Spencer had been wild when he knew it was the gravedigger who had won the car. Then he had made himself look upon it as a solace for the family while its owner was under restraint—after he had put him under restraint. And here to come upon a scene like that of a farce. It was as good as any farce he had ever seen. As for the old lady there, he was pleased and thankful she was no relation of his. A real old war horse, that one.

  ‘Here, then, let me put a temporary bandage round your head and then you can go out and have a look.’

  The doctor got busy and in a few minutes, the bandage in place, John rose to his feet with the help of Florrie and Arthur, but no sooner had they got out of the door than they were confronted by Broderick and Katie, who had been listening in with ears strained to the commotion and had picked up a great deal of it. Now they wanted to be right in on this last fantastic bit of news, for Moira, on her way to collect the doctor’s bag, had dashed in to tell them what had happened.

  ‘Begod, John,’ cried Broderick straight away. ‘Aren’t you the lucky one…’ Then, looking at John’s swathed head, he exclaimed, ‘And has somebody gone and given you another one on the napper.’

  John, being his usual self now, did not deign to answer but, pushing Broderick aside, walked slowly to the gate, through it and onto the pavement. When his eyes moved from one car to the other, it was Mr Fowler who pointed to the smaller and brighter one.

  ‘There she is.’

  John stopped an arm’s length from the car as if afraid to approach nearer. His mind was telling him that this was his—he had won a car. The odd thing about it was he didn’t even remember buying a ticket. This lapse of memory, he supposed, was due to the blow he had received from the ball. But him… him with a car.

  ‘Don’t be afraid of it; it won’t bite.’ It was the doctor’s crisp tones and John, without looking in his direction, moved closer.

  There were voices all about him now, all full of admiration.

  ‘Oh, isn’t she a beauty.’ Linda could see herself and Pat side by side in the car going off for full days at a time. Pat could drive.

  ‘Coo!’ Frankie, now that his equilibrium had been returned with his birthright, saw himself doing seventy in her. Not that he wouldn’t want his bike an’ all but, coo, to drive a car… a new one.

  Arthur was standing near his mother now and he wasn’t thinking so much about the car as about her. He wanted to tell her that everything was all right, for he knew that she was glancing at him furtively from time to time. Even with all this commotion going on, he knew she was worrying about how he had taken the news. So being the lad he was, he put out his hand and slipped it through her arm, and as he pressed it to his side, he gave her all the assurance she needed by nodding towards the car and saying, ‘A smasher, isn’t she?’

  Florrie was too full for words. She just looked at Arthur with a long look and, to stop the tears from flowing, she turned her eyes from him towards the car and nodded her approval. There was no excitement in the nod for she hadn’t taken it in yet that they now possessed a car.

  ‘Begod, she’s small, but she’s bonnie enough.’ This was Katie speaking. Was there a trace of jealousy in Katie’s voice?

  ‘And you to win a car, John.’ Broderick had his head back and his voice was loud. ‘And you the one against cars an’ all they stand for. Isn’t it just like the trick that fate would play you? What will you do with it at all?’

  The look John turned on Broderick was the old one, and his voice had the remembered cutting note as he said, ‘What will I do with it? Give it to you?’

  ‘Get inside and see what she feels like.’ It was none other than the doctor holding the car door open for John.

  John looked at the doctor, and he hesitated with one foot on the step.

  ‘Go on, man, she won’t bite you.’ The doctor sounded quite different, quite human, in fact.

  But for all his jocular manner, the young doctor still remained the enthusiast and, bending into the car, he looked at John sitting with the wheel almost in his lap and he pointed to a little effigy dangling from the front of the inner roof just above the windscreen to the right of the driving wheel. ‘And you’ve got a St Christopher to guide you. Everything complete,’ he said.

  John’s eyes swung up to the effigy, and as he stared at it the old antagonistic feeling against superstition arose in him and he thought, ‘One of them; I’ll have it out of that. I can do without that, thank you very much.’ But on this there ran through his head a counter-thought; it was like an actual voice saying, admonishingly, ‘Now, John; now, John.’

  John blinked and looked again at the effigy, then quickly he closed his eyes and rubbed his hand across them. That blow had knocked him a bit off-colour… Why for a moment he thought the damned thing had winked at him.

  ‘You’re feeling all right?’ The doctor’s hand was on his shoulder.

  ‘Yes, doctor, I’m all right.’

  ‘Are you going to leave that there?’ The doctor pointed to the St Christopher.

  John looked again at the effigy and as he answered the doctor he kept his eyes on it. ‘Well, if it doesn’t do much good, I don’t suppose it’ll do much harm.’

  The doctor nodded slowly, and as he watched John ease himself out of the seat, his face screwing up against the pain in his head, he said briskly, ‘That’s enough of that. Come along and I’ll see to that head of yours.’

  Like a family returning from a trip, they all went up the path—Katie and Broderick tagging on at the back. Florrie was leading the way, telling herself that she must get some fresh tea ready for this lot and also telling herself that she was happier than she had been for years. Then, as she entered the kitchen, a loud cry was dragged from her which brought John and the doctor and the rest of them crowding into the doorway for there, lying on the floor in a crumpled heap by the side of the table, lay Gran.

  It was two hours later and Gran was in bed. She had been surprised to wake up and find herself there for she had fully expected to wake up and find herself dead. That’s what came of willing things. When she had seen them all trooping out gaily to the car, a sense of loneliness had enveloped her that was frightening. She had wanted to cry out to one of them to come back. Even if she had wanted to go with them, she felt that her legs would not have carried her down the path. She started to upbraid them in her mind, each in turn, until she came to Lucy and John, and for them she wanted to achieve something that would bow them down with sorrow because of their treatment of her.

  At one point she suggested to herself that she throw a faint. It would not be the first time that she had thrown a faint and given herself a few days’ rest in bed. But then there was that doctor. He was as fly as a box of monkeys, that one. It would be no use doing an act and him about. Aw, she concluded, she’d be better dead. They’d all be sorry if she was dead. They’d find something decent to say about her if she was dead. ‘Oh, Gran wasn’t so bad after all, was she?’ they’d say. ‘She had a tongue but she was nearly always right in everything she said, and didn’t she stop them from taking her son to an asylum. She hit him on the head with a rolling pin, on the very spot where the ball had bounced. She was cute, was Gran, and wise… Aye, she was. She knew what was good for him, and she was the only one with courage enough to do it.’ Yes, that’s about what they would say when she was dead this minute—that would stop their jollification.

  A car indeed. And who went near daft just a week ago because the lad said he wanted a motorbike, and then seeing that Saint—the car saint. But above everyth
ing else, for him to have got married as soon as he got out of her hands, and her not to know it. Never till her last gasp would she forgive him for that.

  This thought got Gran’s heart to race unnaturally fast. It raced so much that when she tried to call out she found she hadn’t any breath. It all seemed to be racing around her heart. She tried to hoist herself from the chair but found she couldn’t. The racing became faster and faster, and Gran, deep inside herself, yelled at it, ‘I’m not going to die like this, no I’m not.’ But the more she protested, the more it raced. And then of a sudden she became quite calm. This was it then; this was the end. A deep sorrow enveloped her, sorrow and regret. For exactly what she was incapable of explaining, for in the sorrow she fell to the floor.

  The bed was warm and soft and Gran felt sleepy. She felt she could lie for a week and that’s what Florrie had said she must do. ‘Now, Gran, you mustn’t worry about anything.’ Florrie had stroked her hair off her forehead. ‘You’ve got to lie there at least for a week, the doctor said so.’ And then she had bent and kissed her, whispering as she did so, ‘You really did me a good turn. I’ll never be able to thank you. You’ve put him on his feet again.’ Then she smiled and added, ‘And nobody but yourself could have done it.’

  They had all been to see her, creeping in and creeping out of the room, and they had all been very nice, even their Lucy—particularly their Lucy. They all thought she was going to kick the bucket, but she wasn’t. No, by jingo, she wasn’t going to kick no bucket, not when Florrie had taken it like that. There was glory for her to wallow in for years to come. Every member of the family would talk for years of the day Gran had hit Dad with a rolling pin. All, of course, except her son. She blinked her eyes and realised that John was actually there before her, sitting by the side of the bed. His head looked twice the size so wrapped round was it with bandages. His face looked greyish and she said to him, ‘You shouldn’t be here, you should be in bed.’ She was surprised that he had to bring his head close to her to hear what she was saying, and she made an effort to push him away, saying, ‘Get yoursel’ to bed.’

  ‘Don’t talk, Mother. Just lie quiet.’

  The wave of sorrow and regret was once again enveloping Gran and she felt herself pulling him to her and it was very, very hard for her to say the words but she made herself do it as she brought her hands up to his face. ‘I’m sorry, lad,’ she said. She watched a light start up in his eyes as she spoke; a light that had never shone for her before. And then, with his hand touching her cheek, he replied softly, ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for, Mother, for from what I can gather from Florrie, you’ve done me a good turn. I can’t take it all in yet, but I seem to have had a heck of a week and given all of you something of a time. The only thing for you to do,’ he went on, stroking her cheek, ‘is to rest and get better, and then you know what?’ He was actually smiling at her just as she had watched him do at their Lucy. ‘I’ll take you for a jaunt in me car.’

  The smile was covering his face and she returned it and asked with the semblance of a chuckle, ‘St Christopher comin’ along?’ There was a puckered look of bewilderment on John’s face as he replied slowly after a moment’s hesitation, ‘Aye, there’s nowt for it. I suppose I’ll have to take him.’

  ‘And McNally?’

  There came a quirk to John’s lips as he looked at his mother. ‘And McNally,’ he said.

  The thought of being in a position to give McNally a lift in his car had a strange effect on John—he felt he was actually swelling and it was a grand feeling. It went on and on until he felt more than twice his size. Then from somewhere deep inside him a voice exclaimed gleefully, ‘I’ll show him, I’ll frighten the daylight out of him.’

  NOTE FROM THE CATHERINE COOKSON ESTATE

  We are indebted to our agent, Sonia Land of Sheil Land Associates, who has persevered in helping get this manuscript to publication. Special thanks and much appreciation to Emilie Marneur, Sammia Hamer, Sophie Missing, Gillian Holmes and Jill Sawyer, who have done a magnificent job in transcribing a much faded manuscript, which, without the presence of Catherine Cookson herself, might not have made this all possible.

  And to Catherine Cookson, we are eternally grateful to you for writing yet another marvellous story and we hope you will be proud of this publication.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © The University of Newcastle upon Tyne

  Catherine Cookson was born in East Jarrow near the mouth of the River Tyne, one of the poorest areas in Britain. Her childhood was deeply scarred by violence, fear, alcoholism, shame and guilt, and her books were inspired by her upbringing. She fought hard for a better life and was determined to be a writer. Her readership quickly spread throughout the world, and her many bestselling novels established her as one of the most popular of contemporary women novelists. After receiving an OBE in 1985, Catherine Cookson was made a Dame of the British Empire in 1993, and was appointed an Honorary Fellow of St Hilda’s College, Oxford, in 1997. She died shortly before her ninety-second birthday, in June 1998. By the time of her death, she had written over one hundred books and was the UK’s most widely read novelist, and remained the most-borrowed author in UK public libraries for twenty years.

  The Cookson Estate recently discovered two unpublished manuscripts—a memoir and a novel—in the attic of Cookson’s home. Amazon Publishing will be releasing these two unseen works and the author’s backlist will be available through Kindle Direct Publishing, ensuring Catherine Cookson’s legacy is available to readers across the globe.