My Beloved Son

by Catherine Cookson

  He wondered why Mick didn’t tell her to behave, but Mick had had three glasses of whisky and four beers, and he had slumped into his chair, not drunk, just apparently in deep thought and seemingly oblivious of his sister’s chatter.

  It was in desperation that Joe, of a sudden, pulled himself away from the clutching hand, exclaiming, ‘Look at the time, Mick. If we lose that last bus, we’ve had it.’

  Stirring himself, Mick said, ‘What time does it go?’

  ‘Just on ten.’

  ‘On ten? That’s early, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not for our part of the country.’

  There would be buses running for the next hour or more, and perhaps camp transport of one kind or another, but he knew he couldn’t stand the sight, sound, or feel of this woman a minute longer.

  She was still talking at them when they walked into the dark street. ‘Christmas Eve, mind, Joe. Christmas Eve. Goodnight, our Mick…An’ goodnight…Sir Joe.’ Her loud laugh followed them.

  Spend Christmas Eve in her company? Not if he knew it. But then there had been stirrings in him all evening, and excitement borne of an old desire: he must see Carrie again, for at this moment she was appearing to him as a life-saver. His drink-hazed mind was telling him that to love and be loved by Carrie would erase all the misery of his life.

  When he got in the bus the future stretched brightly before him, so brightly that for the first time since he had been in the camp he joined in the singing:

  Kiss me goodnight, sergeant major,

  Tuck me in my little wooden bed.

  We all love you, sergeant major,

  Nobody wishes you were dead.

  Until you awake me in the morning,

  And bring me up a nice hot cup of tea…Gor blimey;

  Kiss me goodnight, sergeant major,

  Sergeant major be a mother to me.

  But once out of the bus and about to say goodnight to Mick, there passed through his fuddled mind the sound of Janet’s voice saying, ‘Goodnight, Sir Joe,’ in mock civility. And now, putting his hand on Mick’s shoulder, he said, ‘The “Sir” business, Mick, the “Sir” business: you won’t let on in the camp? And tell her, Janet, will you? Will you? Not to keep it up.’

  ‘Aw, don’t worry, I won’t let on. Nor her. I’ll tell her. But can’t see why not, though.’

  ‘Don’t want it.’

  ‘Should be an officer. That’s what you should be; you should be an officer.’

  ‘Don’t want to be no bloody officer.’

  They both laughed now and clung together for a moment, before pushing each other away and going towards their separate sites, while still calling their goodnights.

  Seven

  He was in agony to know if he’d be off on Christmas Eve or on Christmas Day. It wouldn’t be so bad, he told himself, if he was on duty on Christmas Day, for Maggie and Mrs Robson would understand. But to be tied up on Christmas Eve as well, and to miss seeing Carrie, brought a feeling of anxiety and rebellion into his being.

  It turned out that he was booked for duty up till five o’clock on Christmas Eve, but he had a forty-eight hour pass to cover him from then on.

  Maggie had a forty-eight too; she told him so over the NAAFI counter, and she added, ‘Aunt Lizzie is baking like mad, although I don’t know where she’s got the stuff from; you wouldn’t think there was a war on. Don’t eat too much tonight and don’t have any breakfast.’ She paused before adding, ‘It’s nice for you to have met old friends.’

  ‘Yes, Mick’s here till the New Year. You’ll likely run into him.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ She stared at him. ‘I’m looking forward to tomorrow too.’

  ‘Same here.’ He nodded as he smiled at her, while at the same time wishing he’d had the courage to make his excuses, because then he could have spent the day with Carrie. Perhaps they could have gone out for a walk together and talked, picked up when they had left off. Oh, no, no, not where they had left off, where they were when they were young, really young. She had once said she loved him, before he’d had the nerve to say the same words to her. He would remind her of that. He smiled inwardly and the warmth of it spread to his face.

  Seeing it, Maggie said, ‘It’s going to be a nice Christmas all round. I’ve made up my mind that from two o’clock this afternoon, when I’m off, I’m not going to listen to the news until Boxing Day, if then. Is it right?’ She now leant slightly across the counter and in a low tone said, ‘I hear you hit the bottle last night; sang your head off in the bus.’

  The smile slid from his face and he answered stiffly, ‘You can’t wink here without it being broadcast, can you?’

  ‘Well, as you happened to be the only two who had managed to get…under the influence, it was noticeable when you started them all off. Did you have a sore head this morning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you’re lucky; it must have been good stuff. I can’t promise you the same tomorrow. As Aunt Lizzie says, beggars can’t be choosers in that line, but she’s got a drop in.’

  He made himself smile now as he nodded and said, ‘Good! Good!’ then added, ‘What time shall I come up?’

  ‘Oh, any time. Please yourself. The sooner the better.’

  ‘Right. Right.’ He stepped back from the counter. ‘’Bye then.’

  ‘’Bye, Joe.’ She had said the farewell more to herself and her eyes watched him making his way towards the door. He looked so smart, so straight, so slim, she ached inside, and she soothed herself by thinking, there’s tomorrow, all day tomorrow. Then her practicality rounded on her: what difference would it make? She was only prolonging the agony. If he was posted, or the war ended tomorrow, that would be that, and she knew it. The sooner she stopped crying for the moon, the better.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be back, Lemon.’

  She snapped her eyes away onto the speaker, who now said teasingly, ‘And don’t look at me like that, I haven’t said nothing.’ He leant towards her. ‘The fact is, I’m one of them that’s glad you hit it off, sort of, in a way, like, because he’s not so sullen since he got in with you. Like a clam, he was, when he first came.’

  ‘Well, that’s never been your complaint, has it, Ritchie?’

  ‘No, you’re right there. But I’ll tell you another one who hasn’t got the complaint either: Billings.’ He made a small movement of his head backwards. ‘Billings was gone on you, you know; he still is. Came as a kind of shock when the news broke about you and Joe-boy. By’—he wagged his head now—‘you are lucky, aren’t you, Lemon, to have two blokes after you and you not the size of three penn’orth of copper?’

  Maggie had a cup of tea in her hand ready to pass over to him, but she kept a hold on it as she looked at him and said quietly, ‘If you say one more word, Ritchie, in that condescending, patronising tone, I’ll let you have this all in one go in that big loose mouth of yours.’

  ‘Ah, Lemon, Lemon, I was only…’

  ‘I know what you were only trying to say. Well, you’ve said it. Now, there’s your tea, and if you’re wise you’ll say no more.’

  ‘By, you’re a little spitfire when you like, Lemon.’ Self-consciously now, he picked up his cup of tea and pushed the copper towards her, and as he turned away, two airmen being served further along the counter smiled at her, and both simultaneously took their thumbs from the handles of their cups and pointed towards her. She smiled faintly at them, jerked her chin upwards, then turned round and went into the back room, and there she said to Bett Allsop, ‘Take over for me for a few minutes, Bett, will you?’

  ‘You feeling bad?’

  ‘No, no. Well, just a little dizzy…faint.’

  ‘Dizzy? Faint? Ho! Ho!’ Bett nudged her in the arm as she said on a smirking laugh, ‘Eeh! Don’t say that; that’s when the loaf starts to rise… But that’d be the day, eh?’

  Maggie watched Bett adjust her overall, then straighten her cap. The smirk on her face as she went towards the door, the improbability of such an event seemin
g to have fixed it there.

  Maggie went to the sink and stood gripping the cold edge of it, and as she looked down onto the mass of dirty crockery she had the strong urge to take up the pieces, one after another, and dash them against the wall.

  Even knowing she was friendly with Joe, they could not give her the benefit of the doubt that there could be a possibility of him wanting to take her; or even Billings, for all his pestering, having the same desire. Her suitors were apparently a joke, a sexless joke.

  Turning about, she looked in the mottled mirror that showed her reflection from the top of her cap to her knees, and she bowed her head against herself.

  Eight

  It was just on three o’clock when Mick came hurrying into the picket post where Joe was on duty and, taking him aside, he whispered, ‘Carrie, I’ve…I’ve just been on the phone to her; she won’t be able to get in until after ten tonight.’

  Joe looked at him blankly but made no reply, and Mick, jerking his head, said, ‘You can come in if you like, but…but somehow I don’t think you enjoy our Janet’s company.’ He grinned sheepishly, then added, ‘Can’t you put that dinner off the morrow?’

  ‘No.’ Joe shook his head. ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘Will you come to tea, then?’

  Joe looked away for a moment. It wouldn’t be fair, not only to Maggie, but to her aunt, to have his dinner and then leave them when they were expecting him to spend the rest of the day with them.

  It came as a surprise and a solution of sorts when Mick said, ‘If it’s a girlfriend, bring her by all means.’

  ‘She isn’t my girlfriend.’ Joe’s retort came in a hissing whisper and he cast his glance at the sergeant sitting at the table at the far end of the room, supposedly writing; then he added rather shamefacedly, ‘But she’s been kind, she and her aunt, and I feel under an obligation.’

  ‘Well, do as I said and fulfil your obligation by bringing her. Janet says there’ll be a good few there tomorrow night, so one more won’t make any difference.’

  Joe bit on his lip, thought for a moment, then said, ‘Leave it for now. If I can manage it I will come. When’s Carrie got to go back?’

  ‘I told you; Boxing morning.’

  ‘Even if she doesn’t arrive till late tonight?’

  ‘That’s what she said. She asked after you on the phone, she…she’s looking forward to seeing you.’

  Joe stared at him, and for a moment Mick returned his glance; then his lids blinking, he said, ‘I’ve got to go; I want to catch the bus. I hope to see you the morrow then? If I don’t, a happy Christmas. And by the way, a happy birthday an’ all. Twenty-one. Some place to celebrate, isn’t it?’ He glanced around the post. ‘Anyway, we’ll make up for it, tomorrow, let’s hope. See you.’

  Joe remained still for a moment; then, turning to the window of the hut, he watched Mick hurrying down the roadway, and there came into his mind a strange thought: although Mick had said, ‘See you tomorrow, then?’ he had received the impression from somewhere beyond the words that Mick wasn’t over anxious for him to go. It was a silly idea. He knew how he felt about Carrie; she was bound to have told him. Could it be there was someone else in the offing, and Mick didn’t want him to be hurt? Could be.

  He turned from the window. The sergeant was still writing. He wasn’t the talkative kind, rather sullen in fact, which suited him, because he himself wasn’t the talkative kind either. But at this moment everything looked sullen; the weather, this damned hut, the whole camp, his life. Oh yes, his life…What was he going to do with himself tonight? Buses would be packed, as would Hereford …

  There was Maggie and Mrs Robson.

  At half past six he carefully placed the two boxes on the carrier on the back of the bike and set out for the hills. The sky was high and bright with stars, the air cutting, and for a moment he was taken back to the northern winters, when the lungs would object to the searing iciness of the air, and suddenly he was back in the Hall. He could see the firelight flickering over the Christmas decorations; he could see the young lad he once was, filled with excitement. It was his birthday and tomorrow was Christmas morning, and there would be all those presents. There was always the hope in him that Martin and Harry would like what he had got them. It didn’t matter so much about his mother, or his Uncle Arthur, but it had been important that his cousins should exclaim loudly with surprise at his gifts.

  He stopped on a turn in the hill just before the last run to the cottage and looked away into the night, where he knew the valley lay. In the far, far distance the thin line of a searchlight played across the sky, and as he watched it he thought that even tonight there could be raids and people would die. They were lucky in this quarter of the country. He supposed he was lucky, too; but no, he’d rather be where things were happening, so thick, so fast that there’d be no time to think.

  As he mounted his bike again he wondered how they would receive him; he wasn’t expected until tomorrow …

  They received him with bright faces, a gabble of words and, in a way, open arms, for Lizzie, in an impulsive movement, pulled him to her, saying, ‘Happy Christmas, lad. Oh! I am pleased to see you. What’s happened? I thought you wouldn’t be here until the morning?’

  ‘What went wrong; you were for Hereford, weren’t you?’ Maggie was taking his coat.

  ‘I…I changed my mind.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Well, I’m here, aren’t I?’

  Maggie looked at him through narrowed eyes, and for a moment the smile left her face; and then she said, ‘In the life. In the life,’ and turned and led the way into the sitting room.

  ‘Oh, this is nice. It is.’ Joe stood looking around him. The mantelpiece and the pictures were trimmed with holly and in the corner of the room stood an artificial Christmas tree, decked with tinsel, coloured glass baubles, and a traditional fairy on the top. The fire was blazing in the grate and a lamp standing on a side table was sending out a soft glow. He turned and looked at Maggie and for a matter of seconds there was a stillness between them and in it they exchanged a warm glance. Then Lizzie came bustling into the room, saying, ‘Well, sit yourself down and take that tunic off, and put your feet up…Oh! this is nice. Now this really is Christmas Eve, to have a man about the house once again. How much leave have you got?’

  ‘Forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Well, in that case, there’s no need for you to go back tonight. You can camp out on there.’ She pointed to the sofa.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Away with you! You’ll do what you’re told. You’re nothing but a lad, after all, and I have a way of dealing with lads.’

  ‘It’s my birthday, I’m twenty-one.’

  Now why on earth had he said that? There had been no need to tell them…Yes there had; he wanted someone to know it was his birthday, to be pleased it was his birthday; there was some part in him at this moment that was craving for comfort. He started as the thought occurred to him that they were both about to fall on his neck and kiss him; but it was Lizzie grasping his hand and shaking it up and down, saying, ‘Happy birthday, lad. Happy birthday. Now isn’t this something, having a birthday on Christmas Eve? And a twenty-first. My! My! This calls for a drink.’

  He had pulled off his tie and was handing it to Maggie when their fingers touched for a moment; then she too had hold of his hand, shaking it, saying, ‘Twenty-one. Well, you could have fooled me; twenty-six, I would have said, at least, if not more. Oh, don’t look like that; I meant it as a compliment.’

  ‘Twenty-six! What are you talking about, girl? He just looks a bit of a lad. A bit serious, mind’—Lizzie poked her head towards him—‘a bit too serious, I’d say, for your age. Twenty-one. Isn’t that wonderful, twenty-one! Oh, we must drink on this. Go and bring the bottle in, Maggie; we’ll never have a better occasion for opening it.’

  The most strange sensation was almost overwhelming him, there was a tightness in his chest, causing a constriction in his throat, there
was pricking in the back of his eyes. On a note of desperation, he said to himself; for God’s sake, don’t cry. Yet he knew that if he could just sit down, put his head in his hands and let this feeling wash out of him, he would know some sense of relief. They were so kind, they were so good. Once again he was back in his early boyhood days amid the warmth of all those in the house.

  ‘Sit down, lad.’ Lizzie took her seat beside him on the couch and, looking tenderly at him and her countenance straight and the tone of her voice serious, she said, ‘Before she comes back I want to say this to you: thank you for coming; you’ve made her Christmas. I’ve never seen her look so glad for years.’

  As she put her hand on his a strong feeling of guilt pierced his emotions, and he blamed himself for making use of them. That’s all he was doing, making use of them, both of them, but mostly of Maggie, and the feeling persisted, checking his efforts to be cheerful.

  But two brandies and three glasses of home-made wine later, the guilt-feeling evaporated and was replaced by a desire to sing; and this he did, standing to the side of the piano and in a voice that should never be raised in song, for he was tone deaf. Nevertheless, he joined it to Maggie’s and Lizzie’s and they went through a repertoire from The Old Bull And Bush to Come All Ye Faithful …

  It had been a grand evening. They all said so. And when at last they had made up the bed on the couch for him and he had bidden them a last goodnight, he sat for a time staring into the fire, aware that he had a silly contented smile on his face and a wish in his heart that it would remain.