‘Fancy seeing you…Here, give me your bag.’ He took the bag from her hand.
‘There’s nothing in it,’ she said.
‘No, there’s not.’ He shook it up and down. ‘Well, where’ve you been then?’
‘To see Phyllis.’
‘Oh, oh!’ He was walking by her side now, suiting his step to hers. ‘How is she?’
‘Oh, she’s fine.’
‘I’ve been up to see Ted Cobber. He lives up near Jarrow cemetery, but I wanted a walk so I came back the country way…getting in training. Him and me, we were mates for years. He’s a bit cut up, he wasn’t picked for the march.’
‘Is he oldish?’
‘No, no, same age as me about. But he didn’t pass the doctor. We all had to go through an examination, you know. It’s a wonder that he found two hundred fit among us when you take everything into consideration.’ His voice was quiet, and Sarah nodded. ‘Yes, it is a wonder,’ she said.
They walked in silence for some minutes, and each second of each minute Sarah was aware of the man by her side. It was always like this when she was alone with him. She wanted to break the silence but couldn’t, and was relieved when he said, ‘I went up to get a loan of his groundsheet; he used to do a lot of cycling at one time and sleep out.’
‘But you won’t have to sleep out?’
‘No. No. It’s all been arranged in different town centres and places, but we’ll likely have to sleep rough on the boards. But you can use a groundsheet to cover you in the rain, you know.’
He was excited about the march on Monday, the march from Jarrow to London, the march of protest against starvation, and he had talked of nothing else for weeks. She had become almost as familiar with the names of those chiefly concerned as May was: David Reilly, Councillor Paddy Scullion, and Councillor Symonds; Councillor Studdick, the Conservative agent, and Harry Stoddard, his Labour counterpart. She knew that these latter two, political men from opposing sides, had been sent ahead—and together—to prepare the reception for the marchers in places like Harrogate, Leeds, Barnsley, Bedford, Luton, and other towns.
But the name mostly on John’s lips was that of Ellen Wilkinson. Sarah had never seen Ellen Wilkinson. She didn’t think of her as a woman, not an ordinary, normal woman. A woman who could lead men on a march to London could not be an ordinary, normal woman. In fact any woman who was in Parliament could, of course, not be ordinary. As for being normal, well, women had their place, hadn’t they, and it wasn’t really their place to yell their heads off among a lot of men in Parliament. So thought Sarah.
But John was quiet now. He was not talking at high speed about the arrangements and the arrangers, those for and those against. He wasn’t wanting to wipe the floor with Bishop Hemsley Henson, Bishop of Durham, or worship at the feet of Bishop Gordon of Jarrow—his homage of the latter having nothing to do with the man being a churchman.
As Sarah glanced at him she was surprised at the unusual expression of sadness on his face; she had never seen him looking sad before. Aggressive, bitter, cynical, jolly, rollicking, but never sad. He was looking ahead as he said, ‘There’s going to be a short service in Christ Church for the marchers afore we leave.’
‘Oh, that’ll be nice.’ Her answer sounded inane, but it was all she could find to say. And then he asked, ‘Would you come, Sarah?’
She flashed her eyes towards him. ‘To church, you mean?’
‘Yes.’ He was still looking ahead.
‘Yes…yes, all right, John. Yes, I’ll come. May could call for me…’
‘May’s not coming, nor is me mother. Neither of them, but for different reasons. My mother wouldn’t put her foot inside a church if it meant saving her life, or anybody else’s for that matter. As for May, she neither believes in God…or man.’ He stressed the last word. ‘She says it’s a lot of damned hypocrisy, the men going to church before the march, for ten to one there hadn’t been a man jack of us inside a church or chapel for years…and I suppose she’s right in a way. But you know, this isn’t just an ordinary march, at least I don’t see it that way. They’re marching from Scotland and Cumberland, and Yorkshire and Wales, and Durham, but ours is different somehow. Runciman’s said that the Government could do nothing for Jarrow, that Jarrow must work out its own salvation. Well, that’s what we’re doing in this march. Some of us might never make it; it’s a long way on two feet and mended shoes.’ He looked down at his boots, and Sarah looked down at them too. They were newly cobbled. On each boot were two bulging patches of leather, but the boots were shining. As always John was tidy.
There came over her body now a softening, an enervating wave. Again, and almost unconsciously, her body and mind were forgiving him for all the trouble he had caused her. She even forgot for the moment that a short while ago she had knelt in an agony of mental suffering in the church. At this point there came into her mind what she termed a silly thought. I wish I was his mother, she said to herself. She seemed to see inside the big aggressive bulk of him to the everlasting little boy who needed someone to turn to, someone who would always listen to his prattling and who would push the black hair back from his brow as he talked…
‘Keep your conscience clear. Make that your aim in life, Sarah. Keep your conscience clear.’ The priest’s words were loud in her head and she exclaimed to herself, Oh God! But I’ve done nothing, said nothing. She was throwing denials back at her mind now. It was just that when she was alone with him she felt something, a sympathy; it was nothing else, just a feeling of sympathy. He made her feel like this, as if he wanted her protection…Protection. John needing protection…huh! Don’t be so daft. She threw scorn at herself. What he wanted was to bear her to the ground and crush her into it with love. Oh, she knew, she knew what John wanted. Her body told her what John wanted, and there she was talking about being a mother to him. She hadn’t been honest with the priest…Oh, she had, she said; she hadn’t thought like this when she was with the priest, it was only when she was alone with John that she thought like this. Oh God, she wished she was home. And why had she said she would go to the church on the Monday morning and neither the one or the other going. She herself had more than one reason why she shouldn’t go. It was forbidden that a Catholic should partake of a service in another church; it was a sin, she knew that, yet she had said she would go. And after Father Bailey being so kind to her. Oh, she wished she was home.
They were walking in step silently, both looking ahead. Then John, picking up where he had left off a few minutes earlier, said, ‘It’s as if every one of us was going on a private mission. Not a man of us but wants everything to be ordered and who wants to thrust the word rabble down the necks of those that say that’s what it’ll be. I don’t think there’s been anything so well organised as this march for years. Nothing has come out of the North so well organised, I’d like to swear on that. That petition will be handed over to Parliament by men, not a rabble. And for the few that’s against us we’ve got the majority with us. All Tyneside is behind us, and the Lord Mayor of Newcastle, Alderman Lock, is with us all the way. He’s not standing aside and saying every man for himself, Jack. He says, and these are his very words, “Jarrow’s troubles are our troubles,” and…and you know, Sarah’—he turned his face fully towards her now—‘what a lot forget is that it’s us the day, but it’ll be them the morrow if the canker isn’t stopped.’
When she didn’t answer he waited for a moment before saying, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes. It’s just the damp gets into you with all this rain.’
Again he was looking ahead, and again he was silent for a time until he said, ‘Have you been to the doctor’s this week?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Oh, just that I must eat more.’ She forced herself to smile at him. ‘And I told him I didn’t mind losing weight, it was fashionable to be thin.’
He kept his eyes on her now as he asked quietly, ‘Sarah, has your worry anything to do with m
e?’ He put out his hand quickly towards her, exclaiming with concern, ‘Look…look, don’t jib away from me like that, I’m not going to take anything up; and I can’t do anything, can I?’ He moved his head round to indicate the open space of the Slacks and the broad daylight. ‘It’s only that I get worried at times. Aye, yes I do.’ He nodded his head quickly at her. ‘I get worried about you because you never seem to have been right since…well…’ He flung his head round on his shoulders and muttered through his teeth. ‘Since that New Year’s Eve. If it’s about me you are worried you can put your mind at rest, it won’t happen again, I’ve told you…There now.’ He swung his head sideways once more. ‘Well, is it me that’s worrying you…I’m asking you?’
She was sweating now; she could feel it running down between her breasts and from her armpits. Never before had she wanted to pour out the truth to him. Hadn’t she done enough pouring out for one morning? The distress in her was like froth in a bottle, and she knew that once it was released it would be difficult to stop the flow. One thing was sure: if she told him she would have no more trouble with her father. He would scare the daylights out of him, perhaps finish the job that the other fellow had started. She shivered on the thought…But there was another thing she could be sure of too. If she were to answer his question truthfully they would be drawn together, held together by ties stronger than those they would have created through any physical means. She could not explain to herself this knowledge of John’s reaction, except that in fighting her father for her he would unconsciously cloak himself with moral righteousness. Moreover, he would glory in holding some part of her that was not David’s.
She made herself aggressive both in voice and manner and used it as a screen behind which to hide as she cried, ‘Why must you bring that up? And what makes you imagine you have anything to do with the way I feel? You’ve got a nerve, you know, John.’ Her eyes were blinking, her chin was thrust out at him, and her step became uneven as she quickened it with an effort to move away from him.
‘All right, all right.’ His voice was calming. ‘I only wondered. But don’t take on. When you act like that you sound like May.’
His voice was still calm.
She paused in her stride. ‘I’m not like May.’
‘No…no, you’re not.’ He was looking at her, his eyes soft, his whole expression tender. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. No, thank God, you’re not like May.’
Again they walked in silence. They were approaching the streets now, and when she turned into Camelia Street he turned too. He did not say, ‘So long, I’ll be seeing you.’ Nor did he say, ‘You don’t mind if I drop in for a moment?’ He just accompanied her home.
As they approached the front door they heard high laughter, and after she had knocked on the rapper there came a scurrying through the front room and the door was pulled open. And there stood Paul and Kathleen, their faces bright with careless childhood.
Kathleen was about to cry, ‘Oh, Mammy!’ when she saw John. Then, literally leaving the ground, she jumped from the high step into his arms, shouting, ‘Uncle John! Why, Uncle John!’ It was as if she hadn’t seen him for days.
John walked through the front room with her legs straddled round his waist, his arms supporting her shoulders as her head dangled beyond them.
Paul, walking by Sarah’s side into the kitchen, said under his breath, ‘We’ve broken a cup and saucer, Auntie.’
‘You didn’t.’ Kathleen was looking from her upside-down position towards Paul and she waved her arms at him now as she cried, ‘You didn’t, I did. I threw it at him, Mammy.’
‘You what! Let her down, John.’
John, with a lift, planted the child on her feet, and Sarah, looking down at her daughter, said, ‘You threw a cup and saucer at Paul? Why did you do that?’
Putting her hands behind her back, Kathleen sauntered towards the fender; then sat down on it before she answered, ‘Just ’cos.’
‘Never mind just ’cos.’ Sarah’s voice was stern. She turned to Paul. ‘Why did she throw it at you, Paul?’
‘He likely deserved it.’ John gave his son a gentle push that landed him in David’s chair, and the boy, looking at Sarah, said, ‘We…we were just playin’. I…I was teasing her.’
‘You weren’t, you were telling lies. You were…you were.’
The little chin was thrust out at Paul. ‘He said, Mammy…’ She looked at Sarah now. ‘He said you loved him better than me. So there. That’s why I threw the cup and saucer at him. It hit the fender.’ She looked down and pointed with her finger towards the brass rail that rimmed the steel fender, and she continued to look at it as she ended, ‘And you don’t, do you?’
‘I was only teasing, Auntie.’ The boy spoke with his head down, and Sarah turned her eyes away from him, away from her daughter, and away from John. She could not please her daughter by saying, ‘Of course I don’t,’ because that would hurt the boy, and the boy was John’s. What she did say was, ‘You’ll get a skelped behind, me lady, one of these days.’
Then she fell back on the old standby that helped her through trying moments and over little obstacles, and big obstacles too. She said, ‘I’ll make a cup of tea…we’re froze.’
On the Monday morning Sarah stood outside the Jarrow Town Hall and watched the mayor review the men. Two hundred shabbily dressed, freshly shaved, tidy, thin men. She followed them as they marched to Christ Church, and as they entered a man stopped a boy in front of her from going in by saying, ‘It’s only the wives and mothers, lad.’ For a moment she hesitated, but the man accepted her and she passed into the church and sat in the back row. The Mayor and Corporation were seated at the front, and Bishop Gordon took the service.
Sarah had never been in any but a Catholic church in her life, but she did not find this service strange, as she did not follow it. Her mind was elsewhere, for she was overcome by a feeling of deep sadness. Yet at the same time she was experiencing a sense of exhilaration, and she was wishing that she too could march with them. Oh, she wished she could. Oh, she told herself, she did.
The service over, they filed outside, and John came to her side. He had a groundsheet in a roll slung across his shoulders. He looked big and gaunt, yet he too looked elated.
‘Well, this is it.’ It sounded like the goodbye of a man going to war. She looked at him, but she could not speak. Sadness had excluded all other feelings. A couple to the right of them were enfolded in each other’s arms; all about them people were embracing, wives, mothers, children, all clinging to men as if they were about to march to their deaths.
She should say something, but she could not translate her thoughts into words; her mind was a jumble and full of pain, as was her body. It was a strange pain, unlike anything she had experienced before. As the tears welled into her eyes, John’s face moved before her like a reflection beneath rippling water. She heard him saying, softly, ‘Sarah, Sarah. Oh, Sarah.’ He had hold of her hand now. ‘Thanks for coming. You can’t believe what it means. Goodbye, Sarah.’
She could not even say his name or bid him goodbye. But her mind, still in a turmoil, was creating a force which was driving something through her body, something that was beyond the voice of conscience, that could not be held in bounds by discretion, discretion that would have enforced propriety. There was only inches between them, yet the distance seemed immense; it was as if she had to leap to reach him, but reach him she did.
Her mouth rested against his hard jawline just to the side of his lips. After a second of hesitation, when she thought he would not touch her, his arms came about her, and he held her in a vice-like grip. Then she was standing, shaking and blind among the other women, and he was on the road, somewhere in the ranks.
With the pad of her thumb she swiftly wiped the tears from her cheeks, and over the head of the throng she saw him clearly. He was looking towards her. He did not raise his hand in a last salute, he just looked at her and held her gaze. She watched him turn his head away, and it look
ed like that of a conqueror.
A small woman to the side of her was crying. She sniffed and blew her nose loudly. ‘There they go,’ she said; ‘the skeletons of Palmer’s. It’ll be fruitless, the march. The shipyard’s dead an’ it can’t never be brought to life again.’
A woman standing behind Sarah said harshly, ‘Well, they’ll have a damned good try. It’s a good job everybody doesn’t think alike. When that lot gets to London they may look like skeletons, but what they lack in flesh they’ll make up for in spirit. By the livin’ Harry they will that.’
The little woman, now apparently aiming to make up for her despondency, looked at Sarah, and said, ‘But your man’ll be all right; he’s big and tough-looking, he’ll stand it. His name’s Hetherington, isn’t it…John? I’ve heard me son on about him. Have you any bairns?’
Sarah’s mind was working now. Like a juggler, it was tossing words here and there. Before she had time to stop herself she said, ‘I’ve one, but he…he isn’t my husband.’
‘No!’ There was surprise in the exclamation.
‘He’s my…my brother…’
‘Oh.’ The woman smiled as she put in, ‘Aye, Aa should have gathered that, you’re both the same build like, big, strappin’.’ Her smile became wider.
Sarah turned slowly about. The marchers had disappeared; some of the crowd had moved with them; the people about her were breaking up into groups. She nodded farewell to the little woman, then she found herself confronted by the woman behind her, who was looking at her through narrowed eyes, her whole expression one of close scrutiny, and she stopped Sarah’s passage with her voice, saying quietly, ‘Aa did washin’ for Mrs Hetherington for years, it’s the first time Aa knew she’d a daughter.’
The Blind Miller Page 22
