My Beloved Son

by Catherine Cookson

  When he was in bed, and as if he was still the little boy that she remembered, Mary said, ‘There now. There now, that’s better, isn’t it? Now go to sleep. Go to sleep now.’ And Joe, just as the obedient child would have done, closed his eyes, turned on his side and went to sleep. And Maggie went hastily from the room because her throat was tight, and the pain in her heart unbearable.

  It must have been at about one o’clock in the morning when he began to talk, and the unusual sound of his voice startled Maggie out of a doze. She was sitting in an easy chair, her feet on a stool and a blanket around her, and she brought herself forward and peered through the night light to see him sitting upright in the bed, his hand out as if pointing to someone.

  When she reached the bedside he took no notice of her but went on talking rapidly, ‘No, Harry, no, I’m not going to carry them. Look at their feathers, they are beautiful. How could you! No, no, I won’t eat them. Where’s Martin? Martin. Martin. I’m seven years old. Yes, I long for Christmas, and my birthday.’

  Maggie stood silently by the bed, watching him: his head drooped and his voice sounded almost tearful as he muttered, ‘She hit Carrie. Poor Carrie. Ah, poor Carrie.’

  ‘Lie down, Joe,’ Maggie said, putting her hands on his shoulders, but he turned his body sharply around towards her and stared at her for a moment before he said, ‘Oh, Carrie, you’ve come back. Look, I’ve written a poem about you, and a picture. I’ve drawn a picture of you. Oh, Carrie.’ When he leant forward and his arms enfolded her, she fell across the edge of the bed. But her feet remained on the floor, until suddenly he dropped back onto the pillows, taking her with him, and her body became so twisted she could have cried out with pain. Yet, this feeling was superseded by the knowledge that he had his arms about her and was holding her close. It didn’t matter that in this moment he was taking her for someone else: she was aware of only that she was feeling him close to her.

  When she dragged her legs up on the top of the rumpled bedclothes, she kicked those aside until her body was close to his. He was still talking to this Carrie, telling her he was so glad she had come back and that he loved her and would always love her.

  The pain of his words were lost to her in the pleasure of his nearness. Everything else was forgotten for the moment: he was no longer a sick man, his body was warm…hot and pressing against hers; his voice was cut off as his lips moved over her face; her arms tightened about him while her mind soared on his name, crying, Joe, Joe. Oh my love. Oh, Joe, Joe …

  Then it was done. She had made it happen. It would be all she would ever have of him or from life, but it was something.

  It was something. It was all.

  They were both sleeping peacefully, their foreheads almost touching, as Mary, a lighted candle in her hand, stood looking down on them. Her mouth, after being slightly agape, closed tightly and she moved her head slowly from side to side, before turning about and going out of the room as quietly as she had come in.

  When Mary next saw Maggie, she was sitting in the chair, the blanket around her again. She was awake and when Mary silently handed her the cup of tea she said, ‘Oh, thanks; I can do with that.’

  ‘Sleep well?’ The question was brief, and Maggie, peering up at Mary, nodded and said, ‘Between times.’

  Mary now looked towards the bed but she didn’t ask how Joe had spent the night; what she said was, ‘Are you going to phone the military?’ And Maggie answered, ‘Yes, I’ll have to; I could never get him back on my own.’

  Mary now turned and walked towards the door, but after opening it she looked back at Maggie, saying, ‘I’ve been up most of the night meself; she’s needed attention. A rare state she’s in; I haven’t slept much.’ And she stared at Maggie for a moment longer before going out and closing the door.

  Maggie looked towards the bed and the sleeping figure, and she cast her eyes back to the door as she thought, Ah well. Ah well, what does it matter?

  Joe seemed amenable when Maggie woke him with a cup of tea. He drank it greedily, but still didn’t speak; yet he looked at her as if he remembered her and when she said to him, ‘Can you get into your things on your own?’ he made to get out of the bed immediately.

  She was waiting on the landing when she saw him leave and go towards the bathroom. He was still walking in that strange way, lifting his feet well up off the ground.

  He was some long time in the bathroom and she was beginning to get worried, when he reappeared. He did not make for the bedroom again but walked straight towards her; and when, like a child, he stood before her, she silently took his hand and led him down the stairs and to the kitchen.

  When some minutes later Mary put a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him he pushed it aside, but at the same time he pushed his cup towards her. After drinking three cups of tea he sat back in the chair and stared, unblinking, in front of him.

  Mary’s voice was low as if in the presence of illness or death as she said, ‘I can’t see the doctor getting here before ten. What about the others?’

  And to this Maggie replied, ‘If, as you say, it’s all that way to Newcastle and they were to leave straight off they should get here about…well, say half past ten…’

  The doctor arrived at a quarter past ten and the SPs five minutes later. They weren’t the same two who had come the previous day. They arrived in an open jeep and they both looked forbidding. The obvious elder of the two, on coming into the kitchen, looked down on Joe, saying, ‘Well, well, what have we here?’ And it was the doctor who answered, ‘You have a very sick man here. Sir Joseph has suffered a breakdown.’

  Now both men stared at the doctor, their faces slightly screwed and it was again the elder one who said, ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, Sir Joseph has suffered a breakdown. I am Doctor Morgan; I know this gentleman very well.’

  The SPs exchanged glances and it was the younger of the two men who spoke for the first time, saying, ‘But he’s a corporal.’

  ‘Yes, yes, he’s a corporal. Apparently he had no wish to be otherwise; nevertheless, he is still Sir Joseph Jebeau.’

  ‘Well, Sir, Lord, Duke, or commoner’—it was the elder of the two speaking again—‘he’s still a corporal, and a deserter, so it’s our business to get him back. Come on!’ But as he took a step towards Joe, who hadn’t moved, the doctor put in, ‘I’m giving you a letter to pass on to your superior officer. I’ll be sending my own detailed report to the authorities later. In the meantime’—his voice dropped—‘I’d advise no rough tactics with him; he’s a very sick man.’

  The SPs stared at the doctor for a moment longer; then, one on each side of Joe, they each took an arm and a shoulder, the elder man saying sharply, ‘Come on, Corporal; let’s have you.’

  Joe made no move to rise; he was deep in the silence, and he liked it there, he felt rested. There were voices ringing all round him, but they were high up in the air, not touching him; except one, and now it was saying, ‘Come on, Joe, come on, get to your feet.’ That was Maggie. He thought he had lost Maggie, thought she had gone away. Maggie was nice, and Lizzie was nice. He would go and lie down on the couch and they would let him sleep.

  Maggie had pushed aside the young man and was herself clasping Joe’s arm, and she asked the SPs, ‘Are you going straight into Newcastle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well’—she looked from one to the other—‘I have to get back to Hereford. Could…could you give me a lift? And what’s more, you know, he’d come quietly with me.’

  There was a moment’s pause before the older man said, ‘No harm in that as I can see. Well, get him in.’

  ‘I’ll get my things.’

  ‘I’ll get them.’ Mary was already hurrying up the room, and during the time she was away hardly a word was exchanged between the occupants of the kitchen, except when Joe made a move to sit down again and Maggie said, ‘It’s all right, Joe, we’re going out.’

  A few minutes later, her coat and hat on, her case in one hand, the
other holding Joe’s arm, she led him out into the yard and manoeuvred him into the jeep. And as she took a seat she looked at the doctor standing in the doorway, then to Mary at the side of the jeep, and to her she said, ‘Thank you. Thank you for your kindness.’

  Mary gave her no direct answer but, wiping her tears from each cheek with the back of a finger, she muttered, ‘God help him! God help him!’ And Maggie, sitting close beside the almost inanimate figure, repeated the words to herself, ‘Yes, God help him! Indeed, God help him!’ and entreated, ‘Bring him through. Oh, bring him through.’

  PART FOUR

  THE RESIDUE

  One

  Lizzie switched off the wireless; she was sick of listening to the news. Here they were in June, 1943 and the end of the war seemed as far away as it had in 1941. She had thought, last October, when Montgomery had gone after Rommel and swept the board, that that would have been the end of it, but there were so many fronts now it seemed that when they did well in one they lost out on another.

  But it was a lovely day, real June-like; she would take her tea outside while she was waiting for Maggie. She shouldn’t be long now; the bus got in just after six.

  She was worried about Maggie. What was the matter with her? She had definitely changed. And it wasn’t only that she was concerned for Joe, because at times she seemed sort of happy. But it was an odd kind of happiness, because at other times when she had put on weight she had become depressed, and she had certainly put on weight these past few weeks. But then it wasn’t surprising, because she was eating more than ever. There was no talk of diets now. It must be her worry for Joe was affecting her in this way.

  She sat in the summer house and sipped at her tea, her eyes all the while directed over the garden towards the gate, and she thought, as she often did these days, that it was hard to believe that at this minute men, women and children were being blown to bits, or that half the people in the big cities were sleeping underground. She was glad she had nobody to lose in the war. The Swifts had lost their youngest son; his ship had been torpedoed. That was last month. And only three weeks before, their two nephews had gone too. One had been a rear-gunner, the other a pilot in the RAF. And she had heard only yesterday that young Mrs Stoddard down in the town had lost her husband. He was one of Montgomery’s lot. And she was left with three children. But she was lucky in a way for, having the newsagents’ shop, she still had her livelihood, not like some.

  Yes, she was glad she had nobody to lose in the war. Except Maggie of course and, in a way, Joe. But then Joe was lost to everybody, himself most of all. Poor Joe. Maggie had wanted her to go along with her to the hospital to see him, but she couldn’t. Although, as far as she understood, it was a very nice place and they were well looked after, she didn’t think she could bear to see men crying like babies, some of them having gone back into childhood, while others were so fear-ridden that they cowered from a kindly voice. And there were a number like Joe, Maggie had said, who just sat staring into space, obedient in everything but speech.

  Oh, there she was. She rose to her feet and stepped down from the summer house as Maggie dismounted from her bike, and she greeted her casually with, ‘You look hot.’

  ‘So would you be if you’d had to push that bike up the hills.’

  As she pulled off her hat Maggie looked towards the summer house and said, ‘Is that tea still hot?’

  ‘Yes, it hasn’t been made but a few minutes. Here, give me your coat and go and sit down.’

  Maggie had drunk a cup of tea and eaten a scone before Lizzie said, ‘Well, how did you find him?’

  ‘Oh, much the same. I had a talk with one of the orderlies. He said it could be a long job. It was like shellshock but different. He’d had a shock of some sort, and he could be brought out of it, perhaps with another one.’

  ‘Well, he’s not likely to get a shock there, is he?’

  ‘No.’ Maggie picked up another scone and ate it, and as she put her hand out for a third one she said quietly, ‘Do you think you could survive a shock, Aunt Lizzie?’

  ‘Well’—Lizzie turned her head slowly and looked at Maggie—‘it all depends what it is; as you know, I don’t like shocks. But tell me and let me get it over.’

  Maggie bit into her scone, chewed on it for a moment, then said, ‘I’m pregnant; I’m going to have a baby.’

  Lizzie said nothing. Her back was straight, her head still turned towards Maggie; her mouth fell open; her eyes widened and moved over the small frame and settled on where the fruit of the shock lay.

  ‘Well, say something.’ There was an appeal in Maggie’s eyes now as she looked at Lizzie, but still Lizzie didn’t speak, and Maggie said, ‘I’m happy, Aunt Lizzie. Try to understand. I’m happy as I never thought to be happy in my life. It’s the only thing I’m likely to have of him. Whether he stays in that hospital forever or comes out, it’ll be all the same between him and me, but I…I’ve got something of him and that’ll satisfy me.’

  ‘Oh, girl.’

  ‘Don’t say it like that, Aunt Lizzie, please. Can’t you understand what’s happened to me? I’ve been given something that I never thought, never imagined, would come my way: the chance to be a mother. Can’t you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lizzie’s voice came throaty now. ‘Yes, I can understand, but…but it’s something I never imagined…well, with you, not for a minute, and it has come as a shock. Yes, yes, it has, girl.’

  ‘You’re ashamed for me.’

  ‘Not a bit of it.’ Lizzie sounded like her old self now. ‘Ashamed for you, or ashamed of you, no; I’m glad for you; only it’s the last thing on God’s earth I imagined you would ever tell me. When’s it due? How far are you gone?’

  ‘One thing at a time.’ Maggie sat back and wiped her mouth on her handkerchief. Then, her head slightly bent forward, she said, ‘To answer your last question first, I’m almost five months at the beginning of next month. As to how and why, that’s going to be difficult to tell.’

  ‘It’s Joe’s?’ put in Lizzie now, her head poked forward.

  ‘Of course it’s Joe’s. I said so.’ Maggie’s voice was hard. ‘Could it be anybody else’s?’

  ‘But when? He’s been bad…well, long before he left and…’

  ‘I said it was going to be difficult to tell, Aunt Lizzie. Let me put it this way. What’s inside me doesn’t belong here; it really belongs to the girl, Carrie; he took me for her. It was the night he arrived at the house; I was sitting up with him. He had a sort of nightmare, kept talking to her, and when I tried to quieten him he thought I was her. Deep inside he was back in the past with her, and…well’—she sighed now—‘the rest was easy. Nothing to brag about. Mind, if that’s it, I think it’s overrated; more pain than pleasure. I don’t know why they connect it with love. Yet that’s the moment that gave life. Odd.’ She turned her head towards Lizzie now, a sad smile on her face, then went on, ‘But it was my one and only chance to have anything of him, and I took it. And I’d do it again and again should the opportunity arise; but it won’t. So there you are, Aunt Lizzie, I’m like many another in this war; I’ve copped it, as they say.’

  Lizzie’s hand came out now and clutched at Maggie’s and, bending forward, she kissed her on the cheek, an unusual show of affection, and her voice had a break in it as she said, ‘Well, it’s something to look forward to, lass, and other than yourself there’ll be nobody more pleased to see it than I will. Have you…I mean, do they know anything about it down there?’

  ‘No.’ Maggie gave a short laugh now. ‘That’s one good thing about being fat. There have been remarks from Peggy and Bett that I’m putting it on a bit, but it would be the last thing on earth they would dream would happen to me. And you know something?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘You know who’ll get the blame, or the credit, for this?’ She tapped her stomach.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Billings.’

  ‘That fellow?’

  ‘Yes, that fellow. And being
him I’d like to bet my bottom dollar he doesn’t deny it.’

  They both laughed now until Lizzie said, ‘You’ll be dismissed from the Service.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be a heartbreak; I can’t wait. You know, I did think that after the war I’d start a union for waitresses. When you’re behind a counter, Aunt Lizzie, people don’t see you as a human being. They don’t. You’re a different species, especially dishing out tea and wads. The men aren’t so bad, but you remember that time I was on the outside unit for a month or so? It’s a wonder I didn’t upheave an urn over some of those WAAFs, and ATS, too, who weren’t above pushing their noses up. Some of them looked upon us as if we were a lower type of domestic servant. The worst ones were those who had come up from nothing and the pips went to their head. Yet, others were like Joe, you know, titled, not bothering about it.’

  ‘It’s the same the world over, lass, there’s some and some in every class, but, as I’m in the habit of saying, like milk, we all come out of a cow and the cream among us rises to the top.’

  ‘Oh, Aunt Lizzie!’ Maggie pushed her, and then put her hand over her eyes and started to laugh. But when the note of laughter changed and Lizzie saw the tears running from beneath Maggie’s fingers she quickly drew her into her arms, saying, ‘There, girl, there. Don’t worry, everything will turn out right, you’ll see.’