A Time for Courage

by Margaret Graham

  Hannah did not need a map. She turned right and right again and the noise of the street was left behind like it had been before as the roads narrowed and the alleys converged either side. The washing-lines were still strung high and washing hung on some but did not move because there was no wind today. She passed the first public house and then the second and saw sawdust being spread across the floor and smelt the beer again. The blackened wall was on her left and the women passing in thin torn shawls looked at her hat, at her coat, but their faces did not change.

  At last she reached his street. The stairs were still dark, though the child’s cart no longer blocked the way. The stairs sounded hollow beneath her feet as she climbed and she did not stop, though with each step the words she had spoken when she was last here sounded louder and louder. Her bag was heavy again but she could not change hands; the watercress had soaked her glove and the newspaper ink would have run into the black cotton but it would not show, would it?

  His door was closed and now she wanted to turn and leave, down those stairs, out into the street and along to the noise and bustle of anonymity. But she put down her bag and it fell to one side as she knocked.

  There was no sound for a moment and she swallowed, her mouth dry, and again she knocked for he did not know she was coming; but if he did not reply this time then she could leave, run down the stairs and it would be as though she had never been there.

  But the door opened and the light from the room fell on to her hand and caught the side of Joe’s face, lighting the gold-red hair and the pale, freckled skin, the early smile which froze on his face and his eyes which looked blank in their surprise. She could say nothing and so she held out her hand with the dripping watercress and she knew that her face was also stiff and that no smile had come.

  She looked at his face and then down because he had not spoken, and she watched as water fell on to the floor from the cress and a small pool stained the unpolished floorboards of the landing. Would he leave her standing here? Would he close the door on her without ever speaking, ever smiling? But then his hand, large and strong, took the cress and fleetingly she felt his warmth and wondered if his hands were still as hard.

  ‘I’ve come to say I’m sorry, Joe.’ Her voice sounded too high, too tight, and now she looked into his face and there was still no smile, no sound of his voice; she waited but the silence stretched into what seemed like hours and finally she knew it was too late. She bent and picked up her carpet-bag and turned away from the light and the marigolds which still hung on the wall behind Joe. Her footsteps were loud as she walked to the stairs and the empty space was filled with a deep ache now and she hunched her shoulders to protect herself against any further pain.

  She felt his hand as she reached the stairs, a hand which caught her and pulled her round, and she could not see his face because he held her close within his arms, but she could smell the varnish which was on his clothes and the wood which clung to his shirt.

  ‘My mother is dead and I loved her so,’ she said and felt the moist heat from her own breath. ‘I am so sorry I spoke to you as I did. You were right and I’ve missed you and Harry has gone.’

  The words were tumbling now and racking sobs began which could not come before; she knew now that they had needed the comfort of his strong hands, his familiar warmth.

  His voice was gentle now, not like the last time, and he talked softly as he held her. She knew that she had found her friend again and the tears went on and on until her throat was sore and his shirt was wet and still he held her and talked, though she could not hear the words.

  At last the sobs became quiet tears and then just tired breathing and they walked together into his room with a silence which was not uncertain as before but full, rounded and peaceful. He helped her to a chair at the kitchen table before pouring water into the black kettle and lighting the gas burner. There were still no words as he washed thick mugs, leaving them upside-down on the wooden drainer while he held the watercress under the running tap and Hannah remembered the red-specked water as it had gushed from the cottage tap but she said nothing yet for this was a time for silence. She watched as he cut four slices from a loaf of bread which was so new that moist crumbs stuck to the knife. Did he buy it from the bakery that she had passed? His hands were deft as he placed cress between the slices and then cut the sandwiches into quarters; the green was dark against the white. He poured boiling water into the teapot, his face set in concentration, and Hannah saw new deep lines on his face which ran down to his mouth. He was drawn, thin, and there was darkness beneath his eyes. The thick-set boy was gone, the bloom of health along with it. She had seen hunger too often not to recognise it now but said nothing, only watched as he brought a newspaper from the cupboard beneath the sink and laid three sheets on the table, flattening them with his hands, blackening his palms; and it was his hands that she looked at, not his face, because he was not looking at her either.

  It was only when he set the steaming mugs on the newspaper and pushed the plate of sandwiches towards her that he looked at her and smiled, and it was as though the sun had come out and the gulls wheeled and danced in the sky. He sat down at the small table opposite her.

  ‘Have a raw colonial sandwich, Hannah,’ he said. She felt the heat of her blush but laughed because there was so much in her after such a long dark time.

  Without butter the bread was dry. She took a sip of tea and watched as he ate one of the sandwiches and then another.

  ‘How is your work these days, Joe?’ she asked.

  ‘Slow, but then these things often are.’ He ate another sandwich and she took a bite of hers. The cress was strong and hot.

  ‘I had no right to talk to you as I did, Hannah. I don’t know why it happened.’ But he did know and he wondered as he watched her drink more tea whether Arthur was still in her life.

  Hannah sat back, her gloves by her plate. She was hot and unbuttoned her coat, pulling her arms from the sleeves, shaking her head as Joe rose to help. ‘It’s all right, Joe, I can manage.’ She turned and draped it over the chair, seeing the work-bench behind her and the two chairs of simple design beside it, partly upholstered.

  ‘They are very beautiful,’ she murmured. ‘So uncluttered.’ She saw for a moment her father’s drawing-room, so dark, so full, but pushed the image from her because all that was over now.

  ‘Thank you, Hannah. I wish more people thought as you do.’ He rose and walked to the draining-board where the teapot stood and with his back to her he said, ‘I’m so very sorry about your mother. I would find it hard to bear if mine died.’

  Hannah picked up her sandwich but then put it down again for there was no hunger in her.

  Joe turned, pointing to her mug, which was still half-full, but she shook her head.

  ‘Your mother lives a different life to the one mine had to suffer, Joe. She will be with you for much longer.’ Was there bitterness in her voice, she wondered, and knew that there was, and that Joe had heard it too because he came and sat down and placed his hand on her ungloved one and it was as hard as it had always been. She smiled.

  ‘So, what have you been doing and what are your plans now?’ he asked, shaking his head as she pushed the sandwiches towards him but taking another when she insisted.

  He listened as she told him of her Sunday school, of the fundraising, of Esther. Of Harry and how at last they had met and talked and found one another again before he had left.

  ‘And Arthur?’ he asked.

  ‘Arthur is in Scotland shooting deer.’

  ‘What do you intend to do now, Hannah?’ It was not what he wanted to ask and he was surprised that his voice was steady.

  Hannah sat looking at the marigolds, seeing their simplicity and warmth. ‘I’m free now, Joe. I have left home.’ She laughed at his face, at his mouth falling open.

  ‘My word, Cornish girl, you sure do act fast.’

  Hannah registered his drawl which suddenly sounded strong.

  ‘Listen, colonial
, the British have been known to take decisions, you know.’ Their laughter was soft and they were back as they had once been and Joe listened as she spoke of Miss Fletcher and the room she had been offered in the schoolhouse and he listened as she pondered aloud the difficulties which that entailed.

  ‘If I move my allegiance from the suffragists to the suffragettes and follow the Pankhursts’ militancy as I feel I must,’ she explained, ‘how can I live with someone who is a constitutionalist and supports Mrs Fawcett’s National Union of Women’s Suffrage? There is friction between the suffragettes and the suffragists already and I couldn’t bear to damage the relationship I have with Miss Fletcher.’ Hannah saw in her mind the calm face and soft grey dress of her Headmistress.

  She was leaning forward, her finger running backwards and forwards on the newspaper, keeping level with the print, following the column lines, her face drawn in a frown, and she listened as Joe said that she must discuss it with the obvious person, the woman most involved.

  Hannah looked at him. It was so good to be back with him. ‘You’re right, of course, and I shall, but I have another problem that needs solving first.’

  She looked again at his thin face and the way his shirt hung on his body. He had finished the sandwiches now.

  ‘How do you manage to live, Joe?’

  He looked at her and laughed. ‘Well, I breathe in and I breathe out and I guess that seems to work quite well.’

  She did not laugh. ‘Food helps,’ she said and watched as his laugh died.

  ‘Well, Hannah, better men than I have starved in a garret for the sake of their Art.’ His voice was suddenly very British and he flourished his hand in a bow, his laugh returning.

  Eliza had told her that Joe could barely live on the money that his craft brought him, that he would accept nothing from his father because he was too proud. He only wanted money that he had earned himself. She had said that London broke his heart with its darkness and misery, its stench and poverty.

  ‘How is Mary?’ she asked. ‘Is she still making matches?’

  ‘She died.’ His answer was short and his bow died in mid-flourish as he sat back in his chair, his hands on his lap, quite still.

  ‘Her husband too.’

  ‘And the children?’ she asked, fearing his answer, seeing their blank eyes, their thin bodies in the dark fetid room.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. They were taken to the workhouse and I could do nothing. I had nothing I could offer. I am, as you can quite obviously see, Hannah, not exactly the American success story.’ This time it was his voice that was bitter.

  ‘You saved Bernie,’ Hannah said and it was her turn to put her hand on his and she felt his thumb press her fingers.

  ‘So, we won one but lost five. It’s not a good equation, teacher lady.’

  Hannah sat quiet for a few moments because her next words must be just right.

  ‘I’ve a problem which only you can help with.’ She watched as he rubbed his thumb backwards and forwards on her fingers.

  ‘Go on then, Hannah. You know I’ll help if I can.’

  ‘When Mother was alive I decided that if I had enjoyed my holiday so would my Sunday people, and not just them but hundreds like them. Like your Mary. I was going to try and raise funds with our Esther playing the role of musical benefactor, but from a safe distance.’ They laughed because she had already told him of Esther and her fleas. Then she looked back at the marigolds and saw the flickering pear tree. ‘But when Mother died she left me a house in Cornwall and money to fund the scheme.’

  Joe was leaning forward now, his eyes alight, his face eager. ‘Hannah, how lucky you are to be able to go back.’

  She shook his hand. ‘Listen to me, Joe.’ Her voice was low and she found words carefully. ‘I have too much to do in London. I’ve waited too long to fight for what I believe in. I can’t go now but I want you to set up the house for me, run it as it should be run.’

  Joe looked at her, hope washing over his face before dying.

  ‘I don’t like charity, Hannah.’ His voice was cold.

  ‘And neither do I.’ She made her voice angry. ‘I haven’t time for charity. I want someone I can trust to do a job that needs doing. You will receive your salary not from me but from my solicitor who is setting up a trust.’ Her voice was still angry, though there was no anger in her but rather a desperate anxiety. Would her anger work now as his had all those years before? ‘I shall need someone who will care that the scheme works, who can maintain the house. We shall need to employ a cook, a gardener and a maid and I want you to find people from these streets who need work to fill the positions; the Marys of this world. I want the people we send from London to be taught by the cook, by the gardener, by you. They must come back feeling they have learnt from their stay, that they have earned their keep, that above all, they have enjoyed a holiday and possibly gained a skill to help them find work in London.’

  Her throat was dry and she took a sip of tea. It was cold but she barely noticed. ‘There would be the chance to do your own work of course.’ She paused. ‘I need you, Joe.’

  And she did and it would be good to know that though he was in Cornwall he would be linked to her. He rose and walked over to the two chairs, running his hand over the smoothness of the grain. She turned, leaning her arm along the back of her chair. Oh God, he was so thin.

  ‘Are you in love with Arthur?’ Joe asked quietly, not looking at her.

  Hannah felt the shock of his question. It was the one she had not yet asked herself and one that she did not want to consider, not after the hunting weekend and the look on his face as he blooded Harry but Joe was standing by the bench, his face serious, and she knew that it was time she answered both him and herself.

  Thoughts were moving against one another, mingling and breaking away. Arthur’s kindness, the fun they had, the ease of his company, the fact that he did not absorb her but left her free to think and plan and act. The fact that she never wished to know what he was doing. Was this love?

  ‘I don’t know what love is,’ she answered.

  Joe looked down at the chairs and did not speak for a few moments and then he said, ‘I have another four chairs to make by December. Perhaps if the house is ready for our guests by then, they would like a lesson in furniture design?’

  For he knew that she did not love Arthur or she would know and so he would wait.

  He walked with Hannah to the station, taking her bag as though it weighed a bare ounce. He stood with her on the underground platform where the air was thick and sulphurous and asked if she would come often to the house.

  ‘I have much to do,’ she replied and he took her arm and held it.

  ‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘But come when you can because the house will always be waiting.’

  She thought of this as she left the station when her journey was over and ducked beneath the reins of the hansom cab. It was so good to have her friend back again.

  ‘Miss Fletcher’s School for Young Ladies,’ she called to the driver, and watched as the lamp-lighter lit up further down the street. The school was not far from the station, not far from her house but it was not her house now, it was her father’s alone. It seemed strange to be entering the schoolhouse door at this time of the day instead of Sunday morning as the church bells were ringing.

  Beatrice showed her through to Miss Fletcher’s drawing-room which was lit by gas lamps on the wall and a small oil lamp which was placed on the cloth-covered table at the side of the older woman’s fireside chair.

  Hannah smiled as Miss Fletcher rose to meet her, still in grey, and she took the chair which her Headmistress pulled up closer to the fire. She felt stiff and awkward, a visitor without a home.

  ‘I thought we’d have some tea. I know it’s a little late but dinner can always be delayed a little. Tea is so comforting, is it not?’ Miss Fletcher was smiling and Hannah felt the heat from the fire sinking into her body and was tired.

  ‘Did it go well with your f
ather?’ Miss Fletcher asked and Hannah explained that she had left a note and was relieved when the calm woman whose hair was now grey at the temples nodded.

  ‘Perhaps it was as well under the circumstances and I’m sure we can manage should we hear from him at all.’

  But Hannah knew that they would not.

  The tea-kettle was simmering over the spirit lamp, rock-cakes and scones were keeping hot on a plate over a bowl filled with hot water. The butter was a liquid by now which had soaked through the scone and dripped on to Hannah’s napkin which was stark white against her black dress.

  Would her mother have approved of her being here, she thought, looking round the room and then at Miss Fletcher as she poured the tea, and she knew that she would, but suddenly there was a great sadness in her which could not be ignored any more. She put down her scone and looked into the fire. This was not her home, not yet, and she missed the bedroom, the wicker chair, her mother, with a pain which made her want to groan aloud.

  Miss Fletcher reached across and patted her hand. ‘You will grieve for a long while, Hannah, my dear. It is right that you should and you must not deny the pain and sorrow. It is important that grief should run its course.’

  Hannah looked away from the fire now, down at the dog which panted on the hearthrug, then on to the rest of the room with its floor-to-ceiling bookcases down at the far end. There were bound copies of Punch, and the Illustrated London News, and standing a few feet from the shelves was a solid mahogany desk.

  The hissing gas lamps lit the silver inkstand and the brass letter scales with a dull glow. Set down in meticulous order were blotters, penwipers, sticks of sealing-wax and tapers together with a snuffer. The oil lamp smelt as her mother’s had done. There was silence between the two women now and Miss Fletcher’s smile was one of understanding and calm.

  Dinner was served in a small alcove off this room since the Sunday school had taken over what had been the dining-room.

  They dined on a rosewood table without a cloth. A rose-shaded lamp was set to one side and cast a soft light into the shaded area.