My Beloved Son

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Where are you from?’ Maggie’s Aunt Lizzie was asking.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s the heat; you were nearly asleep, I think. Hurry up with that tea there, Maggie! I said, where are you from?’

  ‘Northumberland.’

  ‘Oh. I know Northumberland and all that district. My first husband was from those parts. I’ve been married three times. You wouldn’t think so, would you? But anyway, how’s one to tell that? And the strange thing about it is they were all orphans. Funny, that, isn’t it? All orphans. Good job in the long run. He was from Hebburn, my first. Mouldy place, Hebburn. That’s in Durham, though. But I went into Northumberland a number of times, to Hexham. Did you live anywhere near there?’

  He swallowed deeply before he answered, ‘Not far. Up…up in the hills.’

  ‘Farmers?’

  ‘Yes, sort of.’

  ‘Sort of? Well, you are, or you aren’t, laddie.’

  ‘Well, in a very small way: chickens and pigs and things like that.’

  ‘Oh, a smallholding, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, yes, a smallholding.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got it ready?’ She was looking at Maggie now. ‘Not before time. What about having it outside in the shade? I’m almost roasted, myself, in here.’

  ‘Can I carry that?’ He took the tray from Maggie, and she, picking up two plates from the table, said, ‘Come on, I get sick of listening to her.’

  They passed through the hall again; then he followed her across the lawn to where a rough wooden table was placed near the trunk of a large oak tree, to which was nailed an equally rough seat.

  As Maggie took the things from the tray and set them on the table she said, ‘I know what you’re thinking: we’re slightly barmy.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Oh, you needn’t be polite; in fact, I would say to you’—she now paused with her hands on the table and stared up at him—‘please don’t be polite. Imagine you’re at home and you’re not going back to that madhouse. That’s what I do every time I’m home; because it is like a madhouse, isn’t it, most of the time?’ She was smiling quietly at him now; and equally quietly he answered, ‘Yes, it is.’

  She sat down and began to pour out the tea and, her voice still quiet, she went on, ‘I don’t suppose it’s really so bad for you, instructing or teaching, whatever it is you do, but in the NAAFI, amidst the clatter—’ she now looked at him and her words were spaced as she went on, ‘and the chaff and the ribbing; well, I sometimes think I have died and gone to hell, because that’s what I think hell must be like; constant joking, especially when you hear the same thing repeated over and over again.’

  As she handed him the cup of tea her tone changed: ‘Not that I’m against joking, but everything in its place; when I’m here with Aunt Lizzie, we chaff each other, but…but not all the time.’

  He was staring at her, amazed at the reaction her words were having on him; it was, in a way, as if she were suffering an agony similar to his own.

  ‘Well, now, this is better.’ The spell was broken by her aunt as she came across the lawn, devoid of her apron now, her long cotton dress flapping against her thin legs. ‘There’s a bit of a breeze coming up, I think. We could do with it. Likely have a storm tonight, shouldn’t be surprised.’ And as she sat down she added, ‘Now tuck in; we’re not short of a thing or two up here. Not that, mind’—she now wagged her finger in Joe’s direction—‘she brings me anything.’ The finger was now pointing at Maggie. ‘She could, I know she could, but she won’t. She’s soft in the head. I know there’s lads get eggs and butter and stuff from the farms, but everybody hasn’t got farms, and I could take you to some cottages that are well supplied with butter, sugar and cheese and what have you, that’s not from the farms.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Auntie.’

  ‘I’m speaking the truth. The fiddling that goes on down there would set up an orchestra, and not one, but a couple of dozen.’

  ‘Well, where did you fiddle the fat to make these scones, those tarts, and that sandwich cake?’ Maggie was stabbing her finger at the different plates on the table, and her aunt wagged her head and pursed her lips before she said, flatly, ‘I’m courting one of the airmen; he comes to Donald’s farm.’ She jerked her head backwards, and on this both Joe and Maggie burst out laughing.

  ‘Think I’m past it?’ She poked her head now towards Joe, and gallantly he now replied, ‘I could never imagine you being past anything, Mrs Robson.’

  ‘You’re right, you know. I was a beauty in me day. Do you know that? Could take me pick, and I did. Oh’—she closed her eyes for a moment—‘I wish I had me life over again. Yet’—her voice became serious—‘I wouldn’t want it to end anywhere else but here’—she now looked about her—‘with the hills behind me and the river at me feet, so to speak.’

  During the silence that followed Joe experienced the most odd feeling, for he had the desire to reach out across the table and to take her hand: not Maggie’s, but this woman’s, the hand of this woman who would never see sixty again. Then he saw her face change and there was his mother staring at him, and as if his hand had already been extended he felt himself jerking it back. So real was the sensation that his fingers slipped on the handle of the teacup and when the tea spilt into the saucer he exclaimed, ‘Oh! Oh, I’m sorry!’ Then on an embarrassed laugh, he added, ‘I’m not used to polite society.’

  ‘Well, we’re not polite society, lad, so tip it onto the grass and we’ll pretend we’re not looking. And we could do with some hot water. Will you get some, Maggie?’

  Maggie hadn’t reached the house door before Mrs Robson asked, ‘You married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘One of a family?’

  ‘No. I…I’m the only one.’

  ‘Your parents alive?’

  Again he paused; then lifting the cup, he almost gulped at the tea before saying, ‘No, they are both…dead.’

  He became embarrassed when he found the woman’s eyes tight on him. Then she was smiling, saying, ‘Funny how I always run into orphans, isn’t it? You known Maggie long?’

  What did the question infer? He didn’t know, and he almost stammered as he replied, ‘We…Well, not really. Well, I see her in the NAAFI quite a lot. My first acquaintance with her was when I heard her sing. She has a beautiful voice, really beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, she has that. It should have taken her places, don’t you think?’

  Again he was forced to pause. ‘Yes, I…I think it should.’

  ‘She’s a clever lass, you know; she doesn’t only sing, but she plays the piano; composes a bit an’ all.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ And without any lead-up she said, ‘From what I gather some people take the mickey out of her down there because of her name, punning it like, and she being a bit fat. She didn’t tell me, but I heard. By! If I…I ever heard anybody doing that I’d scalp them, I’d scalp the buggers.’

  The word was said with such vehemence, yet at the same time sounded so funny, that he almost laughed. Fortunately he didn’t, for what she said now was, ‘There’s no-one likes a laugh more than I do, but there’s a time and a place for everything. She was born small, she was born fat, and there’s no denying that she’s no beauty, but her face has got something. At times when I look at her it strikes me as it’s got something; not beauty, but something that goes beyond it. And she’s worth a thousand of your so-called beauties. By God, she is!’ As her head wagged his embarrassment grew; then in a low tone she muttered, ‘Here she comes. Now mind, don’t say I ever mentioned this.

  ‘Taken your time, haven’t you? Heated it with candles, have you?’

  ‘No, me flashlight.’

  ‘I thought so. You’re not eating.’ She now pushed a plate of scones towards Joe, and he, taking one, said, ‘I’ve already had two. They’re lovely.’

  ‘I never bake anything that isn’t.’ She now laughed as she added, ‘And should you make a habit of coming here you
’ll soon learn I’m a very modest woman; hate self-praise.’

  As he joined in with her laughter he felt a qualm of uneasiness as to what ideas she was getting into her head with regard to his visiting in the future. My! That would be something to cope with, if it got round the unit that he was going up to Lemon’s place. Of all the girls he could have taken up with in the camp, she was about the most unlikely.

  When the tea was over Maggie brought out two deckchairs from the summer house and after putting them up she pointed to one, saying, ‘Make yourself comfortable, I’m going to help Aunt clear up. But before I go, let’s get things straight, eh?’ Her face was on a level with his; she stared at him for some seconds before she said quietly, ‘You needn’t be concerned that you might have started something; I’ve got no ideas that way. As my aunt would say, I happen to be a sensible lass. And I won’t suggest we ride back into camp together either, so sit yourself down there and relax, for underneath all your politeness, you’re on edge.’

  He knew his face was red to the roots of his hair and he stammered, ‘O-oh now, now please.’ He put out his hand towards her, but she waved it aside with a flick of her own, saying, ‘Look, we both know what it’s like down there, don’t we? So let’s leave it at that, shall we? And loosen your collar and tie; there’s enough sweat on it to wash it.’

  He had risen and now stood watching her go towards the side door. Such bluntness, such honesty, it was embarrassing; you weren’t prepared for it, so you didn’t know how to react. He wished…he wished he liked her. Oh well! He jerked his head at himself. He liked her, you couldn’t help but like her, but he wished in this moment it was in him to more than like her. He wished he was big enough to forget that she was a fat young woman with nothing about her but her voice.

  He sat down in the deckchair, loosened his collar and tie, then lay back and looked up into the dark coolness of the oak branches. For a moment he imagined he was in another world, a simple uncomplicated world: a world where there was no place down below in the valley where men were being prepared for war; that there was no place in Northumberland where a woman sat in a room all day with only her thoughts for company; that there was no-one called Carrie Smith; that the world had dwindled and there was only this secluded garden and a secluded house, as had been said, with the hills to the back of it and the river at its feet and two women so unalike, yet alike: so understanding, so thoughtful of each other, and not only of each other, but of him. His head fell to the side; his cheek to the canvas of the deckchair, and his feet slowly slipped forward as he fell into a deep sleep.

  He was aware of being awake long before he opened his eyes. At first he felt more relaxed than he had done for a long time. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever feeling like this. He lay in a sort of mental haze until a feeling of restriction just below his buttocks penetrated his still slumbering state. The pain increased and when he attempted to move his legs the right one went into an agonising cramp that caused his eyes and mouth to open simultaneously.

  He pulled himself into a sitting position on the chair and began to rub his calf vigorously. Then, his head bent forward, he noticed that the shadows were long on the grass; in fact, there was but merely a streak of sunshine bordering the flower garden now. He reached out for his tie that was on the table. He didn’t remember putting it there. He was on his feet now, turning up his collar, pulling the tie around his neck the while he looked towards the house.

  He was about to move towards the back door when Mrs Robson appeared. As she made her way slowly towards him she said, ‘You’re awake then. If you had been dead drunk, you couldn’t have slept deeper. Feel better?’

  ‘I feel fine, but I’m very sorry. I…I never meant to fall asleep. It…it must have been the heat. What time is it? Oh!’ He gave an embarrassed laugh, then looked at his wristwatch, saying, ‘No, it can’t be ten past seven. Oh, I am sorry. Have I kept you in?’

  ‘Kept me in? You mean, have you kept me from going out? Don’t you…no, I rarely go down into the town at the weekends. Too many of your lot in there: can’t get moved. In fact, I don’t go unless I’m forced. Maggie sees to most of my shopping. It’s lucky she’s stationed so close. Oh yes, that was a bit of luck. By the way, the bathroom’s in the first door on the landing.’

  ‘Oh, thank you.’ He smiled at her, then went into the house.

  Five minutes later, when he returned to the lawn, she was sitting with her back to the tree and, standing before her, he said, ‘I don’t know how to thank you for your kindness. It’s…well, to put it poetically, it’s been like finding an oasis in a desert.’

  ‘Well, lad, if that’s how you think, you may come and drink any time you feel thirsty.’

  His smile broadened as he said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Robson; I might take you at your word.’

  ‘Well, I’ll expect you to. As I said, I’m never often out, and if you’re a long way from home it’s always good to have some place to drop in to. Not, mind you, that anybody else’s house can come up to your own. That old song’s right, you know: there’s no place like home.’

  His face was straight as, staring back at her, he said, seriously, almost stiffly, now, ‘It all depends on the place you call home, don’t you think?’

  She did not immediately reply; her eyes narrowed and her eyelids blinked a number of times before she said, ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right…and no suppose about it, you are right. As you said, it all depends on the home you’ve left behind you, or were likely so damned glad to leave. And I’d like to bet there’s quite a few of the blokes down there’—she jerked her head to the side—‘look upon this war as a godsend because it’s given them a legitimate excuse to leave their shanties. A lot of the old sayings are damned silly when you apply them wholesalely, but we keep saying them because some clever bod wrote a song around them. We don’t think…no, we don’t think…Well now’—she rose to her feet—‘you’re on your way. But don’t forget you’re welcome any time you like to come.’

  He half turned from her looking towards the house, saying now, ‘Is Maggie ready?’

  ‘Ready and gone this good half-hour since.’

  ‘What!’

  She had been walking away from him towards the path that led to the gate and she turned her head and said, ‘Didn’t want to disturb you; you looked so peaceful, asleep.’

  He stood still as he recalled her plain speaking, and, his head hanging, he experienced a mixture of relief and a feeling that was most akin to shame. But there was no getting away from it; the overwhelming feeling was one of relief, because if they had ridden in together they would undoubtedly have been spotted.

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Robson.’

  ‘Goodbye, lad.’

  Her voice had a sad note to it and he knew that she was standing at the gate watching him as he rode away.

  He again knew what it was to feel embarrassed when, on the Monday dinner time, he went into the NAAFI, and looking at her over the counter, he said, ‘Hello there,’ and she answered, ‘Hello, yourself.’ The perky waitress was back. ‘Tea or coffee? Take your choice, there’s not much difference.’

  He stared at her for a moment before saying, ‘Tea, please.’

  As she turned away, Rona, who had just finished serving, came and stood in front of him. Her eyelashes fluttering, she said softly, ‘Had a nice weekend?’

  For a moment he thought there was a double meaning in her words, but he dismissed the thought when he recognised it was one of her usual openings to draw him into conversation. But he answered her pleasantly, saying, ‘Very nice; exceptionally nice.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘Move it.’ He watched Maggie bump the tall girl with her hip, then add, ‘There’s a gang of parched Arabs coming in from the desert; see to them.’ For the first time in what seemed an age to him, he wanted not only to laugh but to guffaw, like he used to do when Harry or Martin came out with something funny. At the same time he realised that there was some form of seniority behind the counter, and tha
t Maggie was in charge.

  Just as he had been wont to do as a boy, so this morning after waking, he had lain and thought of the day ahead and what he had to do in it, and he was aware that life had taken on a tinge of colour. The feeling was still with him, and it wasn’t unpleasant.

  ‘Thanks, Maggie.’ He took the tea from her, put a coin on the counter and smiled at her, then turned away.

  Some minutes later, the rush having subsided, Rona, bending down to Maggie, said, ‘Since when has that one called you Maggie? He hardly opens his mouth. I think he’s got ideas about himself.’

  ‘Oh.’ Maggie took up the cloth and began to wipe a section of the counter. Her head on one side, she bit on her lip, looked up at the waiting face above her, then said in a not-too-certain tone, ‘Eeh, let me think. It must be since we were first married.’

  Betty Allsop, who had overheard the exchange, let out a hoot of laughter, while Maggie went on rubbing at the counter, but Rona’s reply was, ‘That’ll be the day, even with a fellow like Billings.’

  Still rubbing away at the counter, Maggie had to resist the desire to turn round and bring the wet cloth across the beautiful face to the side of her. Yet, at the same time she knew she had laid herself open for such a reply. She drew in a deep breath; then, the cloth still in her hand, she turned about and went into the kitchen. And there she wrung the cloth out in the sink. Then still holding it, she went to the toilet and, just as she was, she sat down on the edge of the seat and, bending forward, she went through the motion of wringing out the cloth once again. Presently, her teeth pressed tightly down on her lip, she turned her head and leant her brow against the stone wall.

  Three

  As Mrs Robson said, people had taken to war like they did to life: they had accepted it and were living with it and with all the things it did to them; but why did them up top have to go and stop the flower trains coming from Cornwall? There was nothing like a flower to cheer you up on a dark day. It was to save transport, the government said. That was just a gimmick, like when they stopped the holiday trains. Yet, when there was any racing on, transport could be found for that, couldn’t it? And who went to the racecourses, she wanted to know. Aha! And income tax eight and sixpence in the pound. And then the daft things they were up to: ordering booksellers to destroy their maps, and ordinary folk an’ all, as if the Germans when they landed wouldn’t know where they were going. Men, really! It was women they wanted up there to spread some common sense among them.