by Marie Joseph
‘And you don’t?’
‘Not in Jack Thomson, I don’t. He works all day with mental defectives, and it seems sometimes that some of their behaviour has rubbed off on him.’ Her step faltered suddenly. ‘Harry actually thought Jack would fill the good neighbour bit when he’d gone. Sawing logs, that sort of thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he saw Jack as a sort of father figure to Gatty in his absence, but things have gone wrong there. As you must have noticed.’
‘Was Jack Thomson in the war? In France?’ Robert asked the question quietly.
‘Yes. He was in the thick of it, I believe. Regular army.’
‘In the trenches?’
‘Yes. I believe he got some kind of medal for bravery. Why do you ask? The war’s been over for years. Fifteen years, now.’
‘I know, love. And yet it’s as fresh in my mind as if it only ended yesterday. The mind’s a funny thing. It can carry memories hidden deep inside a man for years. He can persuade himself that when the guns stopped, his pain stopped too. There are men who will never be the same, Polly. You had to be there to understand. Adrenalin would be pumping through Jack Thomson’s veins like a drug. For four hellish years. Some can switch it off and get on with what’s called normal living, but others crack. It might take five, ten, even fifteen years, depending on their temperament. Physical wounds heal, but the other kind can burst open at any time. My guess is that your neighbour is more to be pitied than condemned.’
‘You mean he can’t stop fighting?’
‘Something like that.’
‘So hitting his wife isn’t his fault? Because in his mind she’s taking the place of the Germans?’
They were walking up the cinder path to the cottage now. Edna met them at the door wearing her hat and coat, a bulging handbag over her arm.
‘I’m going now.’ She nodded towards the distant hill. ‘I don’t want to be caught in the rain, and if I get a move on I’ll catch the four o’clock bus.’ She glanced at Martin cradling the dog tenderly in his arms. ‘What’s up with everybody? Your Gatty came in a while back and went straight upstairs. Took her all her time to answer me civil when I asked her if she wanted a cup of tea.’ She smiled politely at Robert, changing her accent completely. ‘It’s been a right pleasure to meet you, Mr Dennis. I hope you enjoyed your little walk.’
‘You’ll be all right, Mam?’ Polly looked up at the lowering sky. ‘I’d come down the hill with you, but. . . .’ She gestured helplessly towards the open door. ‘Be careful then.’
‘There’s summat up,’ Edna told herself, as she started down the hill. ‘An’ it’s to do with Gatty, that’s for sure.’ A pain shot through the sole of her best Sunday shoes as she forgot to step round a sharp stone. ‘Live like gypsies and kids’ll grow up like gypsies, running wild in this God-forsaken place.’ On she went, small mouth working, muttering, chuntering, worriting at her brain till she felt one of her heads coming on. There was summat wrong, summat she couldn’t put a finger on. When she’d gone upstairs to have a nose round like she often did when she got the chance, she had felt proper queer. Edna snorted out loud. An’ that was daft for a start. She didn’t hold with cyclic feelings, never had, but all the same she’d been glad to get back down to the fire and the kettle singing on the hob. Yes, she’d be happy to get back to her own little house with a good neighbour either side of her, and not a single blade of grass nor a view in sight.
As she passed the Thomson’s tumbledown cottage she heard shouting voices raised in anger, one deep-throated, and the other like the squawking of a tiny bird, interspersed with the wail of a baby’s hungry cry.
The bus was waiting there by the little general store-curn-post office, red and reassuring, the driver winking at her beneath the neb of his peaked cap.
And as it drove away down the winding road, leaving the village behind with its muddy winter fields and the hump of Pendle rising from its east side like a dark and brooding backdrop, Edna settled herself in her seat, staring straight ahead, already in her mind back home, putting the kettle on.
Biting his lips hard in an attempt to stem the pain now crawling round his shoulder blade and down his spine, Robert knelt on the floor by the dog’s basket. Carefully he held the bent leg in his hand, running his fingers up the bone. Whispering words of reassurance, he slowly straightened the leg, studied it for a moment then, holding his breath, bent it back again.
‘Put his dish over there. Right by the door.’ He nodded at Martin. ‘That’s right. A bit farther away.’ He straightened up. ‘Now rattle it on the floor and call his name.’
‘But he can’t walk!’ Martin’s indignation showed in his voice. ‘You know he can’t walk.’
‘Call him over. That’s a good lad.’
‘Do as Mr Dennis tells you.’ Polly exchanged a glance with Robert, and thought she saw him wink.
Snug in his basket, the dog seemed to be weighing the odds of the situation. Rolling his liquid brown eyes back, he then slewed them in Polly’s direction in an attitude of abject pleading.
‘How can you be so cruel?’ he seemed to be saying.
‘Call him again.’ Robert was smiling now.
‘Come on, Jim! Gran’s scraped the hotpot dish on top of your biscuits. See!’ Holding the dish out, Martin tried again.
For a moment the shiny black nose quivered. Rising slowly the little dog gingerly took his weight on the injured paw, tested it further by stepping out from the basket before running four-legged over to the round, brown dish by the door.
‘The little fraud!’ Martin’s face was a study in amazement. ‘How did you know he wasn’t hurt bad, Mr Dennis?’
‘I didn’t.’ Robert got to his feet too quickly, the sudden movement sending pain springing in his armpit. He reached for his trilby, picking it up from the table where he’d skimmed it on coming into the cottage. ‘And now I’ll be going.’ He jerked his chin upwards. ‘You’ll be wanting to talk to Gatty. She won’t want me around when you do that.’
Polly went with him to the door. ‘I wish you’d let me look at your shoulder first. The dog might have been putting it on, but you’re not, are you? You went with an almighty crash down there in the wood.’ Her blue eyes were troubled. ‘I’m sorry things turned out the way they did, and I appreciate the way you went for Jack Thomson. But I’m not as tolerant as you. I can’t make excuses for him the way you did. He’s an evil man, Robert. Bad, through and through. Harry would know what to do, but he’s not here, and I’m certainly not going to write and worry him. I’ve a feeling things aren’t going right down south. Harry might come home if I told him the truth, and that’s the last thing I want. He’s got to try to make a go of things first. Coming back now would mean we’re back to square one. You can see that, can’t you?’
They stood silently for some seconds. She was so vulnerable, he had a sudden urge to draw her to him, promising his protection. His feelings for this lovely, troubled, young woman needed clarification in his analytical mind. Leaving her in these isolated backwoods was tearing at him with a pain as acute as the agony of his injured shoulder. Their eyes held hard for a moment as a flicker of awareness passed between them. He forced a smile.
‘Thank you for that wonderful hotpot, Polly.’ Taking her hand he squeezed it briefly. ‘Take care, love. And don’t worry. It’ll all come out in the wash.’
Slowly Polly closed the door. There was so much she had wanted to tell him, so many worries to unload. He had come into her life at a time when her need to confide was overwhelming. He was virtually a stranger, and yet she had known the way he would have listened without uttering a single word of advice.
‘People have to work out their own salvations,’ he had said, as they sat together in the sunshine. She guessed he was a man of great tolerance. And it was odd and somehow disturbing the way his friendship meant so much, even in the short time she’d known him. He had a way of seeing things straight on, tempering them with wisdom and compassion.
Now she would never see him
again. Polly imagined him returning to his house, looking back on his Sunday in the country with utter disbelief. For a fleeting second she had an urge to open the door again, run after him, and beg him not to go.
‘We’re not like this,’ she wanted to say. ‘Before Harry lost his work and with it his quiet happiness, we were an ordinary family. I wanted you to see us as we really are, and more than that. I believed there was in you a need for laughter and friendship, and I wanted to answer that need.’
Sighing deeply, she started up the stairs and the necessary confrontation with Gatty.
‘Jack Thomson said you were pestering him!’ Polly came straight to the point, closing the bedroom door and going over to the bed where Gatty lay, one arm over her face, thin legs in pale lisle stockings stretched out on the patchwork quilt. ‘What did he mean by that?’
‘Search me.’ Gatty’s voice came back, muffled but defiant. ‘He had to say something, didn’t he, when you and that man came bursting through the trees like Robin Hood and flamin’ Little John.’
‘Gatty . . .’ Polly prayed for control, fighting down a desire to yank her daughter to her feet and shake the truth out of her. ‘If Jack was trying anything on with you, and you’ve more or less admitted it wouldn’t be the first time, I’m going to tell the police.’ She found she was actually wringing her hands. ‘It’s the last thing I want to do, but you’re my responsibility. Even more so while your dad’s away. Jack has got to be warned off. Surely you can see that?’
The arm over Gatty’s face twitched a little, but she gave no sign of having heard a word her mother said.
Polly tried again. ‘Where was Winnie?’
‘Gone home.’
‘Why so early?’
‘Because there’s nothing to do out here of a Sunday night, that’s why.’
‘And there is down the town?’
‘She goes with some mates on the road, that’s all. Just larking about, linking arms and talking to lads sometimes. Everybody goes.’
Polly knew all about the ‘road’. A few of the girls at school had done it, Sunday after Sunday. They walked in twos and threes up and down the main road, as far as the park gates and back. They even went into the park at times, if they were picked up by a boy, to sit on the benches bordering the Broad Walk and lie in the grass fronting the Conservatory, if they were bold enough.
‘I never wanted to do that.’
‘Well, you were courting at my age, weren’t you? More fool you.’
‘So you met Jack accidentally, walking back from seeing Winnie off on the bus?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Why were you in the wood then? The way from the village is up the hill.’
‘Because I was looking for you. I knew you’d gone for a walk and so I was looking for you.’
‘And that’s the truth?’
‘God’s honour.’
‘Martin said Jack pushed you over.’
‘Only because I gave him a bit of cheek.’ Gatty’s tone was infinitely weary. ‘He said something rude to me so I gave him a mouthful. He thinks he’s that flamin’ handsome, it was time somebody told him he’s just a nowt.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘I hate him, if you must know. One minute he was laughing at me an’ the next he looked as if he could kill me. You know what he’s like, our Mam.’
It was all so plausible, so reasonable an explanation, Polly felt the tension ebb away from her. Sitting down on the narrow bed, she lifted Gatty’s arm from her face. She spoke softly. ‘Don’t give him any more cheek, love. He’s always had a bad temper, and Bella says it’s got worse lately.’ She coughed nervously. ‘Mr Dennis said it could be because of what happened in France during the war. Jack was in the thick of it for almost the whole time. You didn’t know that, did you? So we have to make allowances.’ Polly held Gatty’s hand to her face for a moment. ‘Just keep away from him, love, as much as you can, and don’t provoke him. Promise?’ She tried not to notice when Gatty immediately snatched her hand away. ‘I know it’s not much fun for you living out here now you’re older. It was all right when you were a little girl going to the village school and following your dad around like a little lapdog. Sometimes I tend to forget you’re all grown up.’
Oh, God, would she never stop talking? Gatty knew she couldn’t bear another minute of it. What did her mother know about it? What did she know about anything, come to that? And why did she always have to be so flamin’ patronizing? Oh, God, why did she just have to BE when all Gatty wanted was to be alone, cut off from living till things came all right again?
Before her mother had closed the door, Gatty could feel the terror taking over. Sitting up she laid her forehead down on her bent knees. The fear inside her swelled and swelled until she was faint with the feel and smell of it. If Polly hadn’t got up and left the room, Gatty knew she would have blurted out the truth. But the truth was too horrible even to contemplate.
She bit hard on her finger to stop herself from crying aloud. Over and over in her imagination she went through every single detail of what had happened to her. . . .
It was the Sunday before, and she’d been down in the little wood like today. But not looking for Jack Thomson, just gathering sticks for the fire with Martin, quarrelling with him, as usual. Gatty swallowed hard, feeling the swelling come up into her throat again. Crying wouldn’t do any good. Puffy eyes would only get her mother going again, asking her everlasting questions, ferreting out the terrible something that might never need to be told.
Gatty stretched her eyes wide. The thing to do was to keep calm, and not worry. It was three whole weeks before her next period was due, even if it came on time which it hardly ever did. Sometimes she went five or six weeks. Doctor Mansfield said it was because she was anaemic, and that lots of girls were the same at the beginning.
Gatty started to tremble, forcing herself to go over what had happened, picturing it in detail, striving with all her being to rid herself of this tearing anxiety.
Gran had been for her dinner, sitting round the table with her hat on, chewing with her mouth open the way old people did sometimes. Gatty remembered watching her in disgust, deciding never to grow old like that. Fifty would be a decent age to die, she’d decided. Before her neck went scraggy and she needed to wear glasses, anyroad.
It had been a misty day, with the whale-shape of Pendle hidden by cloud. By four o’clock it was going dark, and that was when Martin said he was going home.
Or was it when the cat, sleek and black as night, had streaked across their path? ‘A witch’s cat’ Gatty had said, trying to scare her brother. ‘It’s not true that the witches lived on the hill all those years ago. It was down here where they lived. I bet that cat wasn’t real, our Martin. I bet if we’d touched it, our hands would have gone right through it.’
‘I’m going home,’ Martin had told her, going all funny the way he did when he was trying not to show he was frightened. Taking a piece of string from his pocket, he’d tied the sack of sticks at the top before slinging it over his shoulder. ‘That old cat was real, our Gatty! I’ve seen it many a time, sitting on the counter at the shop. Mrs Bebson says it comes in with fleas, and ghost cats don’t have fleas. If that old cat was a ghost, then I can knit fog, so yah to you!’
The peevish, brotherly face he pulled made Gatty want to hit him, to run after him, grab his hair and roll over and over on the ground with him as they’d often done when they were younger. In that moment she hated Martin so much, she could feel the hatred swelling up inside her, thick and hot. But she was wearing her only pair of unmended stockings and her new pleated skirt, and besides, she was too old to fight. She stood watching him go, the sack over his shoulder, tall where she was small, fair where she was dark, clear-skinned where she was sometimes spotty, clever where she was not.
‘Oh, God!’ Deliberately she shouted the blasphemy aloud. Oh, how she hated Sundays! Hunching her shoulders and digging her hands deep in the pockets of her swing-back jacket, she trudged away in the opposite dire
ction, scuffing the wet fallen leaves with her shoes, seeing the toe-caps turning black and caring not at all. Shoes . . . she hated shoes. She hated the rows and rows of boxes on high shelves, the climbing up to get them down and then the kneeling on haircord carpet and pushing them on to feet. Big feet, small feet, sweaty feet. . . . Gatty grimaced as if burdened by a sudden pain. If it wasn’t for Winnie, she wouldn’t stop at the shop another day.
‘There’d be a hundred girls queueing up for your jobs,’ Mr Arnold had told them the day he’d found them smoking in the store-room at the back. ‘Do you fancy yourselves in the ranks of the unemployed, queueing up for the dole and lying in bed every morning for want of an occupation?’
Every single day like Sunday, Gatty reminded herself, and stopped, the endless prospect of a whole week of Sundays almost too terrible to contemplate. She tried to imagine waking up in the cottage with nowhere to go, nothing to do. She sighed. It was a bit thick when the alternative to doing what you didn’t want to do was doing nothing at all. Life itself was a bit thick, come to that.
Always a slow thinker, Gatty sat down on a fallen log and tried to rationalize her depression. It was just that nothing was fair. Nothing in the whole rotten world was fair. Her father, before he went away, was always reminding her that she lived near the loveliest village in Lancashire. In the country, come to that. It had a gurgling brook, a village green with stocks, and a church built in fourteen something. And nothing happened. Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! The stupid sheep on the hillside, with their silly black faces and potty vacant staring eyes, had more interesting lives than she had.
Suddenly Gatty started to cry. It was a meaningless, vapid, silent habit of weeping, and one she’d indulged in a lot lately. In a strange way she enjoyed it, this feeling of tears slipping down her cheeks and her tasting the sad saltiness of them as they ran past her open mouth. Sometimes, when she cried in bed, she pretended she was crying for her father, missing him, but she knew that wasn’t strictly true. For a long time now, for the last year at least, she hadn’t been all that interested in anyone except herself. Taking a tiny mirror from her pocket, Gatty gazed at her tear-stained face with lingering concentration. Seen that way, with tears glistening like glycerine on her cheeks and on the ends of her long black eyelashes, she looked quite pretty. Winnie wet her hair with sugar and water and put Dinkie curlers in every night, and she was always telling Gatty how much nicer she’d look if she at least waved her fringe with kirby grips crossed over her hair made into little round snails. The tears forgotten, Gatty pushed her fringe away from her forehead and pouted, not too sure of the effect.
