My Beloved Son

by Catherine Cookson

  Joe had gauged that the ‘he’ she referred to was the uncle and the reference to Pitman’s shorthand brought his eyes to Mick and his face ready to go into a grin; but something in Mick’s expression checked it and he listened to him saying, ‘She’s a bright lass, is Carrie.’

  ‘Now you’ve said it, Mick, you’ve said it. Yes, our Carrie’s a bright lass. And she’s going places.’

  Joe noticed that the little woman referred to Carrie as if she belonged to them: it was Our Carrie. In his mind’s eye there was dawning a picture of this Carrie. He could see the smart business girl: she’d likely be wearing three-inch high heels and her hair would be permed; and not only would she look smart, she’d talk smart. For a moment he wished he hadn’t come: he didn’t want to see this new Carrie. On the way here this morning, the picture of the Carrie he had once known and played with…and loved, had been plain in his mind; and the nearer he had come to the house where she now lived, he imagined the Carrie he expected to see would be merely an older replica of the one who had run out of his life the day his mother had hit him and knocked him out. That memory too had been brought sharply into focus on this journey. It was as if his mind was digging down through the years and bringing up pictures of past events …

  Stan Carver was a thickset, medium-sized man, and strangely, Joe thought, he resembled his wife, at least in features: they had the same sharp-edged face. What was obvious, though, straight away was that Mr Carver didn’t talk much and his greeting of Mick was as to one of the family, indicated with a nod and a ‘Hello, there!’

  When Mick introduced him, Mr Carver shook his hand in the conventional way, saying, ‘I’m pleased to see you, lad. You’re welcome,’ then went to the sink in the far corner of the kitchen to wash his hands, came back to the fireside to sit down in a chair to the right of the oven, and watched his wife putting out the meal.

  It was as she put the last plate on the table that the door opened and Carrie Smith entered the kitchen.

  Automatically Joe rose to his feet, although Mick remained seated. The girl who was now confronting Joe was someone strange and of whom he held no memory in any corner of his mind. She wasn’t smartly dressed as he had imagined: a slack grey coat reached halfway down her calves, her hat was in plain brown felt and from under it her hair hung loose. It was rather unusual, he thought, to see a girl with long hair hanging loose. Her hair was dark brown, as were her eyes; her face was round, her cheeks naturally red. She was wearing no make-up; she could have been a girl fresh from the country. That was until she spoke.

  When her voice came to his ears it denied the ordinariness of her clothes and the simplicity suggested by her powderless face and loose lying hair, for her tone was crisp, each word clear. Unlike her uncle and aunt, who spoke with the Northern inflection, drawing one word into another, she pronounced the last syllable of each word. This, however, he didn’t realise until later when he let himself think about the meeting and how, after the first keen glance, she looked past him as if he weren’t there, to greet Mick with ‘Hello. You didn’t say you were coming. Why aren’t you at work?’

  ‘I’m on holiday. The boss knew I was worked to death, and not wanting to lose me said, “Mick, you take a few days’ rest. If anybody’s earned them, you have.”’

  ‘Oh yes?’ She inclined her head towards her brother. ‘I can quite understand that he would say that.’ She was taking off her hat and coat as she spoke; then going over to her aunt, she bent down and kissed her on the cheek, and followed this with the same salutation for her uncle; and in response he patted her on the shoulder.

  ‘Haven’t you noticed we’ve got a visitor?’ She had been looking at Mick, but turned slowly and looked at Joe, and smiling slightly said, ‘Yes; yes, of course.’

  ‘Well, don’t you know who he is?’

  When she looked back at Mick she allowed her gaze to rest on him for some seconds before she answered, ‘Of course I know who it is. He hasn’t changed much.’

  Joe felt a heat seeping up through his body, finally coming to rest in his face, which he knew now had turned scarlet. It was more than five years since she had seen him and she was saying he hadn’t changed. He imagined for a moment that he was still in short pants, until she turned to him and added, ‘What I mean is, I would have still recognised you,’ and as if to soften her first statement she added further, ‘Of course, you’ve grown much taller. You would have, wouldn’t you?’

  As he stared at her he actually did feel as if he were in short pants, and he couldn’t find words to answer her.

  The situation was saved for him by Mrs Carver’s crying, ‘Well, there it is! It’s on the table. Take your seats; there’s nothing worse than a cold dinner.’

  As he moved towards the table Joe noticed that, although they had been bidden to take their seats, neither Mrs Carver, nor Mick, nor Carrie did until Mr Carver was seated; then, each pulling a chair out from under the table, they sat down; and having done so, Mick pointed to a carved chair with a leather seat and said to him, ‘Come, sit down. You’re honoured; that’s from the parlour; I hope your pants are clean.’

  Joe sat down and, shyly taking up his knife and fork, he began to eat; but with some difficulty, for there was no conversation. And he was embarrassed further when he realised he was the last to finish. They waited for him, and when his plate was clean, Mrs Carver, leaning towards him, said, ‘Spotted Dick or rice?’

  He blinked and opened his mouth once before he managed, ‘Spotted Dick, please.’

  Spotted Dick. That was what Mary called currant pudding, and his mother referred to as boiled fruit suet.

  He enjoyed his Spotted Dick; but this, too, was eaten in silence.

  The meal finished, Stan Carver, placing his hands on each side of his plate, slowly raised himself up from the table and, standing still for a moment, said, ‘Thank God for a good dinner.’ And without another word he left the table, went out of the kitchen, presumably through the scullery, and into the backyard; and when the sound of the door shutting came to them, Mick turned with a laugh towards Joe, saying, ‘I bet you’re wondering where the first part of grace before meals went.’

  Managing a smile, Joe said, ‘Yes; perhaps I am.’

  ‘Well, I might tell you that Uncle follows a pattern that was forced upon him. You see, he came from a family of ten lads and four lasses and food was the main object in their lives; and if you weren’t careful and hung on to your plate one or the other swiped it.’ He nodded. ‘It’s a fact. They did it laughingly, but they did it; so that cut out forever the grace that says, what we are about to receive, so he only gives thanks when he’s got it down.’

  As they all laughed, Joe glanced towards the little woman, and she, nodding back to him, said, ‘’Tis true.’ Then, looking towards Carrie, she said, ‘Mash the tea, girl. Time’s going on; you’ll have to be on your way again.’ And with this she went into the scullery, Mick following her.

  Left alone with Carrie, Joe sat watching her pour the boiling water into the earthenware teapot, and after bringing it to the table and setting it on a stand, she smiled at him and said softly, ‘How are you?’

  ‘Very well, thank you. And you?’ His voice was as low as hers had been.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, fine.’

  It was as if they had just met.

  ‘I wasn’t meaning to be rude when I said you hadn’t changed.’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know,’ he said and smiled widely.

  ‘It was just that I was a bit surprised at seeing you. When I’ve been back home you’ve always been at school.’

  ‘Yes; yes, I would be. I suppose they arranged it like that.’ He bit on his lip; he hadn’t meant to say that. What had possessed him?

  ‘Yes, I suppose they did. Anyway, I don’t go very often. Dad comes here but not Mam; she and Aunt Alice never got along.’

  ‘Are they sisters?’

  ‘Oh no!’ She shook her head; then jerked it backwards, indicating the scullery, as she added in a much lo
wer tone, ‘They’re not really my aunt and uncle. We call them that. Mam and Aunt Alice are cousins twice removed, so to speak.’

  ‘Oh…Are you happy here?’

  ‘Oh yes. Well, what do you think, after that cottage!’

  The statement was somehow a reflection on his uncle and now on Martin as his successor…And yet he himself had often thought the cottages should have been extended or pulled down and rebuilt. There was still no indoor sanitation or running water. ‘You prefer living in the town?’ he said.

  ‘Every time’—she bobbed her head at him—‘especially when you have a room to yourself and a decent job ahead. What was there for anybody, back there?’ She now poked her face towards him, for her words had not been a statement but a direct question, one with a touch of bitterness, and when he didn’t answer she went on, ‘It was all right for you. Not that I’m blaming you. Don’t you think that. But in your position you had decent surroundings. Decent! What am I talking about? Magnificent surroundings would be a better description. Well, not really magnificent,’ she again contradicted herself, ‘but you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know what you mean, but you know something?’ It was he who was now leaning towards her, and his voice and face serious as he went on, ‘A big house, a room to yourself, and all the food you can eat isn’t everything; you can be as miserable as sin with it all. And anyway, I’m only there for a very small part of the year; I spend most of my time at school, where there’s twelve beds to a room…dorm…and one can never be alone, it’s not allowed.’

  She bowed her head as she apologised, ‘I’m sorry. I do yarp on, and I know you’re right.’

  They started now as the sound of breaking china came to them, followed by Mrs Carver’s voice on a note so high-pitched it was almost a scream, as she cried, ‘Out of me way! Leave them! Leave them! You never come in this kitchen but you break something: when you help it spells disaster. Now go on, get out!’

  Mick appeared in the doorway with his hands going through his hair, his head thrust forward and his mouth in an elongated O, to be greeted by Carrie saying, ‘Eeh, our Mick, not again! What was it this time?’

  ‘A dinner plate and cup.’

  ‘My goodness! There’ll be nothing left shortly.’

  ‘I’ll get her a new set.’

  ‘That isn’t the thing; she likes her old china. She’d had it for years until you started helping.’ She now grinned at him as she pushed him, only to cry at him under her breath as he lifted the teapot, ‘Leave it! We don’t want that all over the floor.’

  As Carrie was pouring out the tea, Mr Carver came back into the room, followed by his wife, and he said to Mick, ‘Stay out of that scullery from now on. D’you hear me?’

  ‘Aye, Uncle.’

  Mr Carver gulped through his tea, then muttered, ‘Well, I’m away. Are you ready, Carrie?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle.’

  As Joe watched her put on her coat and hat he experienced a keen sense of disappointment, for he was realising it had been in his mind to escort her to work. Whether Mick would have proposed this he did not know; he only knew that the desire had been there; but it seemed to be the pattern that she and her uncle left together at dinner time.

  She was standing in front of him and when, conventionally, she held out her hand towards him, saying, ‘Goodbye, then,’ he hesitated for a moment; then his arm jerked forward and he was holding her hand. He felt the warmth of it flowing up his arm like an injection; it was as if everything in her was being transmitted through their palms. But as quickly as his arm had gone out, it returned to his side, jerked back there as if by a spring; and he noticed that his action hadn’t gone unnoticed by Mick.

  He now watched Mick follow Carrie to the doorway that led into the scullery, and he found himself also stepping in that direction, until he could take in the whole of the scullery and the open backyard door through which Mr Carver was now passing, saying as he did so, ‘Ta-ra, then.’ It was a salutation to cover all those present. Then he saw Carrie turn and look at Mick and Mick take her by the shoulders and look down into her face.

  He heard him speak some words, but he couldn’t make out what they were; he then saw him bend and kiss her, not on the cheek but on the lips. Then Mrs Carver’s voice from behind him cried, ‘Out of me way, lad!’ and he sprang aside to let her enter the scullery with a tray of dirty cups and saucers.

  Three: 3rd September, 1939

  ‘Mother! Mother, listen! Will you stop ranting and listen. Look! Now look! War’s been declared and all you can think about, all you can talk about is what you’re going to do if I don’t stop seeing Carrie.’

  ‘I don’t care about war being declared or anything else.’ Ellen Jebeau’s back was bent, her head thrust out. At this moment she looked to Joe like a witch and her voice and words sounded as ominous as any that could have been uttered by an authentic witch, as she hissed at him, ‘I am more concerned about what happens to you than what a lot of stupid men do in their aim to kill each other. Don’t you yet understand, boy, what you mean to me? You are all I’ve got, all I’ve got left to build my life on; my life has been one long frustration, and to stand aside and see you throw yourself away on scum like…’

  ‘Don’t you dare call Carrie scum!’

  ‘And don’t you dare, boy, speak to me like that!’ She had advanced a step further towards him until now they were standing almost breast to breast. ‘I am your mother. I have worked for you in all ways practically from the moment you were born and I’d die rather than see you throw yourself away on the likes of her; for she is scum, and I repeat it, scum. She hails from scum. Just look at her mother and the rest of them.’

  He was unable to speak but he glared back into her infuriated countenance, and when she said, ‘And don’t bring Mary and Mick up as examples of paragons, for Mary is really witless; she’s a good servant and nothing more. As for Mick aiming to rise above himself, he’ll never do it. And he’s crafty; you can see it in his face. And I know he’s behind your meetings with that girl. Doubtless he wants to see her established in this house.’

  It was now he who stepped back from her, almost pushing her aside with his forearm as he said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Neither you nor I have any claim on this house, and you know it. When I marry I can’t live here. As for you, Mother, when Martin marries it’ll be Uncle’s case all over again; you’ll either have to step down and be housekeeper or go.’

  His lips were still pursed on the last words when they suddenly sprang wide as he saw her almost stagger back from him, her hand to her throat, the colour draining from her face. This was the sort of reaction that usually followed a burst of temper bordering on rage.

  As she groped towards a chair he made no move towards her but watched her sit down, then bow her head for a moment before slowly raising her eyes to his again when, in a voice that had lost none of its bitterness, she said ‘Leave me; but I’m warning you, I’ll see you dead first, before you take that girl.’

  He was still visibly shaken when he entered his own room where, going to the window, he placed both hands on the sill and bowed his head. She was mad. She was mad, she was; she was mad.

  ‘Joe!’ His head came up sharply. ‘You there, Joe?’

  That was Martin. He went hastily towards the door; he didn’t want Martin to come into the room because then he might break down and say things about his mother that were best left unsaid.

  They met on the stairhead and Martin cried, ‘You’ve heard the news then?’

  ‘Yes, it’s awful, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, laddie.’ Martin put his arm around Joe’s shoulders and together they went down the stairs. ‘Come, let’s have a drink before we’re blown to smithereens; they’ll likely start at any time.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Oh, sure of it. There’ll be bombs popping all over the place. They’re bound to make Tyneside an early target. They’re already organising air-raid precautions, and children ar
e to be evacuated. Soon everybody’ll be busy doing something, even right out here. What are you going to have? Whisky? Sherry?’

  ‘A sherry, please.’

  He followed Martin to the drinks cabinet that stood in a corner of the hall.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Martin asked. ‘Not frightened of the war, are you?’

  ‘No…no.’

  ‘Then what’s up? Had words with Mama?’

  There was a long pause before Joe answered, ‘Yes, something like that.’

  ‘Take it in your stride, laddie, take it in your stride. Anyway, in a few months’ time you might be called up.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Sure of it; you’ll be eighteen at Christmas. Harry knew what he was doing, didn’t he? He’s a fully fledged pilot now. Lucky dog.’ And as he handed Joe his drink he added, ‘I’m going in tomorrow.’

  ‘What do you mean? To join up?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve seen the partners; they agree it’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘I’ll miss you.’

  Martin’s voice was low, with a note of sadness in it now, as he said, ‘We’ll miss each other, but still, that’s life. Here, drink to it.’ They clinked their glasses; then Martin, walking towards the long window, said, ‘It’s a good job I didn’t become engaged; you shouldn’t get married at a time like this.’

  Joe’s eyes widened as he asked, ‘You…you were thinking about getting married?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  ‘Who to?’ The question sounded naive to his ears.

  ‘Marion, Marion Crosbie; you know, the Hallidays’ niece; you’ve met her.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Miss Crosbie. She’s the dark-haired one.’

  ‘Yes’—Martin now laughed—‘the raven-haired one. Some girl…Marion.’