The Man Who Cried

by Catherine Cookson

  ”How is Lucy?”

  ”She’s . . . she’s fine. Oh yes, she’s fine.”

  ”I’m glad you’ve got her, Hilda. Hilda ... sit down a minute.”

  She drew the chair up to the bed and sat down, her hands tight gripped in her lap, and she stared at Florrie, whose head was now turned towards her on the pillow, and as she waited for her to speak she thought, There’s nothing recognizable about her except her eyes; and they were like saucers, full of pain. ’*’

  ”Will you listen to me for a moment, Hilda?”

  ”Yes, yes, anything, Florrie.”

  ”We’ve . . . we’ve got to speak of him. . . . Abel, he’ll . . . he’ll be out shortly. Dick hasn’t told him, so he’s going to get a shock. And . . . and he’ll have nowhere to go. Would you . . . would you take him back, Hilda?”

  Hilda screwed up her eyes tight for a moment and, her head bowed deeply on her chest and her voice merely a muttering whimper, she said, ”He wouldn’t come back to me, Florrie, it’s the last thing on God’s earth he would do. He’d never come back.”

  ”You don’t know, Hilda. He’ll . . . he’ll want to be where the child is.”

  ”He’ll . . . he’ll likely get a place and take it with him.” ”Well, he’s got to find a place first. In any case he’ll have to

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  work, and the child will need looking after. H»*ll . . . he’ll leave her with you, I’m sure he will for the time being. He ... he owes you that at least. That’s if you’ll look after her. You don’t mind looking after her?”

  Almost by an involuntary action Hilda’s head jerked upwards as she said, ”Oh no! Florrie, no. I want to look after her. She’s a lovely bairn.”

  ”Thanks, Hilda. I ... I don’t deserve it.”

  ”Oh, be quiet.” Hilda’s head was hanging again until Florrie said, ”They say I’m going to be all right, but. . . but I don’t believe them, because I ... I can’t move my back or my legs. But even if I get through, what kind of a life lies ahead? A wheel-chair at best.” She turned her face away now and the muscles of her throat contracted before she added, ”And then that would mean a sort of bungalow. In any case I’m going to be a handicap, and no man, no matter how good he is, would want to be saddled with such a handicap.”

  ”He will.” - . t,

  Florrie brought her face round again and looked at Hilda/Their eyes held tightly for a moment until Florrie, closing hers, brought out on a note of pain, ”Oh Hilda! Hilda! I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  When her mouth opened wide and the tears gushed from her eyes and down her nose and a high moan escaped her, Hilda got to her feet and, bending over her, whispered, ”It’s all right. It’s all right. Don’t you worry about me; it’s yourself you’ve got to think about, and you’ll be all right.

  He’ll see to you, he’ll never leave you. I know him, I know him. That much at any rate, I know him. It’s always been you right from the beginning and I don’t mind now, I don’t, Florrie, believe me. I ... I just want you to get better. I’ll . . . I’ll look after the child until you’re fit. And don’t worry about him, he’ll ...”

  At this point the door opened and a nurse entered and her ”Tut ! tut ! tut !” brought Hilda upright.

  But when the nurse said, ”You’d better go now,” she gripped hold of Florrie’s hand and looking down into her swimming eyes, she muttered chokingly, ”Don’t worry. Don’t worry about a thing; it’ll all pan out.”

  As she left the bed she couldn’t see Florrie, she could only hear her gasping cries, and she had to grope for the ward door, and when she stumbled into the corridor she almost fell against Dick and her muttering became incoherent.

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  When the nurse came out of the room she looked at them both and said stiffly, ”No more visiting tonight!” and Dick said flatly, ”Come on, it’s no use hanging around. I’ll come over in the morning and try to find out what’s going on.”

  He said no more and they walked in silence back to the house. The twilight was deepening, but she didn’t say as at one time she would have done, ”Look, put a move on I want to get in before it’s dark, there’s the blackouts to see to.” Instead she walked slowly, her head bent slightly forward, her eyes directed towards the pavement ; and they must have been halfway home before she said quietly, ”She wants me to take Abel back when he comes out, but I couldn’t, could I?”

  It was a question and he turned his head sharply towards her and stared at her for some time before he said, ”No ! Oh ! no.”

  She looked at him now as she said, ”That’s what I told her; because it’s the last thing he would do, isn’t it, come back ?”

  And now he said, ”Yes. Yes, he would never do that. It would be ... well -” he moved his head in small jerks as if searching for a word and then came out with ”an imposition”. Then he added,

  ”Knowing dad, no, he would never do that.”

  ”No; I told her.” She was looking ahead now and she repeated, ”He’d never do that.” Then she added almost in a whisper to herself, ”It’s the last thing he’d do.”

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  f

  10

  The door opened and as Abel stepped out into the world again Dick hurried towards him, and he held out his hand as if he had only just been introduced to the man before him.

  Abel did not immediately take Dick’s hand, but when he did it wasn’t to shake it, just to grip it tightly. And then he turned and gazed about him. Following this, he looked again at Dick and now he smiled, a broad smile, then asked eagerly, ”How’s Florrie, is she better? I ... I thought she would have written this last week.”

  For answer Dick turned and started to walk up the street, saying quietly, ”Dad, I’ve got something to tell you, but let’s go in and have a drink. There’s a pub up here, we may be lucky. . . .”

  When he was pulled sharply round to face his father, he gulped in his throat because the stud of his collar had jerked against his Adam’s apple.

  ”What’s wrong ? Something wrong with Florrie ?”

  ”She’s . . . she’s not well, Dad.”

  ”How not well ? You said she had the flu, is it pneumonia ?”

  ”No, no, nothing like that. Look.” He glanced about him at the people walking past, then said,

  ”Look, let’s go in some place. Come on, it’s not two minutes away.”

  He had to tug on Abel’s arm now to get him to move and he knew that his father had his eyes on him all the time. He led the way into the saloon bar which was empty; then going to a table in the far corner, he sat down, and when his father was sitting opposite him he looked into the tense waiting face and said, ’’There was an air raid, Dad.”

  He watched Abel’s hand move up the side of his face and press it tightly there before he said,

  ”Yes ?”

  ”She ... she was hurt.”

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  ”Badly?” The question was brief and sounded ordinary. ;

  ”Yes, yes, rather badly.”

  Abel now leant back in the chair and, closing his eyes tightly, said, ”Let’s have it, no more shilly-shallying.”

  So Dick let him have it, but haltingly and through a mutter. He said, ”She’s lost an arm and” - he couldn’t go on for a moment, but drooped his head further and his voice was scarcely audible as he finished - ”her spine’s broken.”

  It was a good minute before he raised his head again and looked at his father. Abel was sitting quite still, staring straight at him but certainly not seeing him. When he did speak it was to ask a quiet question. ”She’ll live?”

  ”Yes. Oh yes.”

  ”And the child ... it went?”

  ”Oh no, no.” Dick now watched his father’s eyelids blink a number of times before he said,

  ”She’s alive?”

  ”Yes, simply because Florrie . . . well, she lay over the cot, there wasn’t a scratch on her.”

  ”Great God!” He shook his head, then said slowly and with some bitterness, ”She’d have b
een better off if she hadn’t?”

  ”No, no, she wouldn’t, Dad, she would have gone with her father, I feel sure of that.”

  ”Fred . . . he «rot it?”

  ”Yes.” ” ’ ’ . . , - ’ r<

  Abel sighed, a deep, slow sigh ; then almost springing up from the chair, he said, ”What are we sitting here for? Come on.”

  Dick didn’t move. ”I’ve given the order, Dad. Just stay put for a minute, we’ll have this drink and then we’ll go. Anyway, the bus isn’t due for another fifteen minutes. Come on, sit down.”

  Abel sat down, and after a moment, while he held his head in his hand, he looked across at Dick and asked quietly, ”What’s the matter with me, lad? Can you tell me what’s the matter with me? I put the finger of disaster on everybody I touch.”

  Dick made no reply, because it seemed to be true. Alice, his mother, Hilda, and now Florrie.

  He now watched Abel rise quickly from the table, and he could do nothing but follow him, and as they walked towards the bus stop with no words between them now, he thought, He’s never asked where the bairn is.

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  f

  The nurse said, ”It isn’t visiting time.” , f

  ”I know that but I want to see her.” I

  ”I’ve told you it isn’t visiting ...” I

  ”Get me hold of whoever’s in charge, will you?” * The nurse stared at the tall, gaunt man for a moment, then turned away and went in search of the sister; and as he waited Abel looked to where Dick was standing at the far end of the corridor.

  When the sister appeared she said, ”It isn’t visiting hours.” ’. ”I would like to see Mrs Ford.”

  ”What relation are you to her?” ”None at the moment but she’s going to be my wife.” The sister didn’t raise her eyebrows but her eyes narrowed as she said, ”Your name is ?” ”Mason. Abel Mason.”

  ”Ah yes.” The bits and pieces were dropping together in her mind to form a picture. This was the fellow she had heard about, father of the child and a bigamist into the bargain. He must have just come out. Well! well! She moved her lips in and out as she seemed to consider. She looked first at the nurse, then towards the door with number two written on it, and abruptly now she said,

  ”Five minutes, no longer.”

  His expression didn’t alter, he didn’t say, ”Thanks”, but he turned towards the door at which her ringer was pointing and then went quickly to it and opened it.

  For a moment he couldn’t see her because she was lying flat and was hidden by the cage at the bottom of the bed, but when he did look down on her his heart seemed to freeze within its own cage and he held his breath for so long that he could have imagined he was drowning. She had her eyes closed, she seemed unaware of any presence in the room, perhaps she thought it was a nurse pottering. He looked quickly about him, then pulled a chair towards her and, sitting down on it, he slowly stretched his hand across the bed and picked up the one that was lying on the coverlet. At this she opened hereyes,and the start she gave caused him to say rapidly, ”There now. There now. Quiet. Quiet. It’s only me.”

  ”Abel . . . Oh Abel!” Her hand, jerking within his, pulled itself free and moved up to his face, then over the back of his head. When his mouth fell on hers it betrayed no vestige of his hun-260

  eer; even while it lingered the fierceness and longing that was in him did not rise. When once more they looked at each other she said again, ”Oh Abel!” Her eyes were blurred with tears but his were dry, bone dry, with a hard dryness that pricked and stung like sand under his lids.

  ”You’re going to be all right?”

  ”Yes, yes.” She nodded.

  He now closed his eyes and bowed his head as he muttered thickly, ”If only I’d been there.”

  She smiled now, then with the shadow of her old self she said, ”There would have been a pair of us then and” - she now patted his cheek - ”Sister would never have let us have the beds in the same room.”

  He gave her no answering smile but said, ”I’ll have you out of here in no time.”

  She didn’t say, ”Yes, yes,” but what she said was, ”Give me a hankie, I want to dry my eyes.”

  He dried them for her; but when he went to take his hand from her face she caught it and held it to her mouth for a moment, and then she said, ”I love you, Abel.”

  The sand was stinging and burning his eyeballs ; there was an implement as sharp as a knife grinding between his ribs, it was striving to reach his heart and tear it open. He had never laughed at the idea of people dying with a broken heart, perhaps the subconscious memory of Alice had caused him to accept this as a fact, but this pain that was in him now was so unbearable he felt that death would be preferable.

  She said now, ”Have you seen, Lucy ?” and when he shook his head she murmured, ”Hilda’s been so good. Always remember that, she’s been so good.”

  ”What!” The name and the implication at this point brought him out of himself for a moment and he said again, ”What!”

  ”She’s got Lucy.” ’*

  ”Hilda?” •-.....--.

  ”Yes.” . . ...... ... ,,; -,.......

  He shook his head in disbelief. -! ’ ,

  ”She’s been to see me.”

  Again he said, ”Hilda ?” but got no further for the door opened at this point and the nurse appearing said, ”You’ll have to leave. There’s visiting tonight at seven.”

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  He got slowly to his feet and, bending down, ^nce more put his lips to hers; but he said nothing more, he just looked at her, he looked deeply into her eyes and she read there the things that he could only say in the night.

  When he reached the end of the corridor Dick was waiting for him. ”Is there a cloakroom around here?”

  Dick pointed, saying, ”Yes, at the end of the corridor, turn right.” He walked with his father towards it, but did not follow him inside because he was thinking, He wants to cry. But when, five minutes later, his father appeared his eyes were dry. There were no signs of tears in them, and he thought that was strange for he usually cried when he was deeply moved. Had those months in prison hardened him ? As they walked out of the hospital he stared at his father’s profile, and the only answer he could give himself was, He’s changed.

  ”What kind of a room is it?” asked Hilda.

  He turned away towards the fireplace and hesitated before he said, ”Not much. It’s clean though.

  He says it’ll do for the present; it’s better than the digs.”

  ”Whereabouts is it?”

  He hesitated again, longer this time before answering, ”It’s in Bartwell Place.”

  ”Bartwell Place ?” Her voice was high. ”That’s in Bog’s End!”

  ”Well” - he turned towards her - ”it’s the most convenient spot for him, it’s halfway between the factory and the hospital.”

  ”How much is he paying for it ?”

  Dick was forced to smile here and she cried at him now, ”Well, there’s no disgrace in being practical.”

  ”No, no, there’s not, Mam.” He had fallen into the habit of calling her mam with an ease which was in a way a surprise to both of them, because she now accepted it as if it were her right, in fact she acted towards him more now as a mother would, not watching her every word in case he, too, would leave her.

  ”Well, what is he paying for it?”

  ”He didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask.”

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  ”He’ll have to have something different from that if he’s to get her out.”

  ”He knows that and he’s on the look-out for some place.” ”How . . . how soon do you think she’ll be able to come out ?” She was at the cupboard and her question was low, muttered as if she were speaking to someone inside it.

  When he made no reply she turned to him and said, ”I was talking to you, I asked you . . .”

  ”Yes, I know you did, and I can’t give you an answer.” ”Why ?” She came towards him and they stood with the table
between them looking at each other; then he said, ”I ... I have me doubts as to whether she’ll ever come out. It seems she’s in a bad way. I was talking to one of the nurses.”

  ”You never said.”

  ”No, I know. But we should have surmised something, she’s been down to the theatre three times lately.”

  After a moment she turned from the table and went towards the crib and she looked down on the sleeping child as she asked softly, ”Does . . . does he ever speak of her ?”

  Again she had to turn to him and wait for an answer and when it came it was brief and he said,

  ”No.”

  Dick now watched her bend over the child and adjust the blanket under its chin, and he realized that in a way she must be suffering as much as either Florrie or his father, because if his father did manage to get a bungalow and Florrie ever came out she would naturally want the child, and his father being who he was would see that she had her, and also someone there to help look after it. On the other hand, if Florrie died the child was all he would have left, and still being who he was, he would take it because, although he hadn’t mentioned it, it didn’t mean that he didn’t think about it. He had seen him holding his daughter, and when he held her he was holding the mother. Poor Hilda. Although he knew that she was grateful for his presence in the house, and for Molly’s company too, it was the child that was bringing her comfort now, and as long as she could keep her it would go on doing so. But once it was taken from her she would be lost again.

  Automatically he now went towards the wireless to switch on the news, and as he did so he thought there was so much tragedy in this house that it made him forget the greater tragedy of the 263

  war. It was strange but the war seemed to be of no <&nsequence to him now. He didn’t even think of the air force any more, what he thought about was the lack of happiness in those close’to him. When you got down to rock bottom it was the personal issues that mattered. The woman with a broken back, the man who had never known happiness, and her standing across the kitchen there, the wife who had never really known what it was to be a wife.